Paved With Good Intentions
by irismay42
Summary: Making a deal with a Demon can be an unseemly business. Especially when you discover that the deal you've made has endangered your sons in ways you hadn't foreseen. Now they've grown up apart and unaware and things need to be set right. AU oddness.
1. Prologue

**A/N:** Well, it's been a while since I wrote a chapter fic, what with helping out over at supernatural.tv's Virtual Season and all (unsubtle promotion ends here). Just gotta warn you before we set out on this little Road To Hell (see title of fic) that I'm kind of winging this one. I have no plan, no direction and no idea where this story is going. I hope to update it fairly regularly, but like I say I really don't have a clue so don't expect too much from me then you won't be disappointed. Real Life has a funny way of creeping up on me when I least expect it. This is a plot bunny that's been stalking me for a while and I really thought it might be fun to make something up as I go along for a change. Thus, don't expect any intricate and fiendishly clever plotting. I'm just messing with the Winchester boys' heads out of spite. (Way to sell the fic, huh?)

**Spoilers: **Oh, let's say everything up to and including Croatoan just so I don't upset any fellow Brits who haven't seen any of Season 2 yet.

**Violence / language:** Nope.

**Spelling / Punctuation: **All in Brit and completely unbeta'd I'm afraid. I've discovered that after writing American for the Virtual Season, I'm forgetting how to write UK, so I thought I'd get a little practice in in between seasons. Therefore feel free to substitute 'z' for 's' and drop a few 'u's whenever you feel the urge. I also put ' in strange places.

**Disclaimer:** All things bright and beautiful / All Winchesters great and small / All things weird and wonderful / The Kripke made them all...

If there's anyone still reading, on with the show...

**PAVED WITH GOOD INTENTIONS**

**Prologue**

It always started with the boy on the lawn.

Standing there, staring up, flickering orange light reflected in big, frightened eyes.

He was clutching something to his chest, wrapped in blankets, tight in his arms like he'd never let go.

Not ever.

Looking up at the orange light.

"It's okay, Sammy."

Sam was four years old the first time the little boy on the lawn spoke to him.

He'd gotten himself turned around in the mall. Lost Daddy. Crawled into the back seat of a big old black car inexplicably parked in the lower mall. 'Classic Automotive Exhibition', Sam had learned many years later. But right then, all he knew was it was warm and it was dark and it smelt somehow familiar. Safe. He'd fallen asleep on the big back seat – as big as his bed back home – and he'd dreamed, as always, of the little boy on the lawn, standing with his arms wrapped around the bundle clutched against his chest, looking up at the orange light.

And the little boy had spoken.

"It's okay, Sammy."

And when Sam woke up, there was Daddy, clutching him against his chest, arms wrapped tight around him.

"It's okay, Sammy," Daddy had said.

And Sam had known right then that he was safe. Because the little boy on the lawn had told him so.

As Sam got older, he still dreamed that same dream, but as the years passed, some things became clearer, as if the image was slowly coming into focus over time.

He was five when he realised the bundle clutched so tightly in the little boy's arms was a baby. The very night his little brother was born.

Sam had fallen into a fitful sleep that night, terrified that Mommy and Daddy wouldn't love him any more now they had the New Baby to love instead.

"It's okay, Sammy," the little boy on the lawn had said, looking down at the bundle in his arms.

And for the first time Sam saw the baby, peeking out of the blankets with eyes reflecting the flickering orange light, gazing up at the little boy in rapt wonder, as if understanding every word he said.

Believing every word he said.

Sam had believed him too, and when Mommy and Daddy brought Baby Daniel back from the hospital, Sam had held him in his arms, clutched him tight to his chest, smiled down at him and whispered reassuringly, "It's okay, Danny."

Sam was eleven when he recognised the fire.

He'd been woken up in the middle of the night by a strange crackling noise and the smell of smoke, venturing out onto the landing beyond his bedroom only to have Dad thrust Baby Lucy into his arms and order him to take her and his little brother outside as fast as he could.

Sam had obeyed without question, his baby sister clutched against his chest and his little brother's hand in his.

They'd stood on the lawn and looked up at the nursery window, watching as the flames danced across the ceiling, and later that night, asleep on the sofabed at Grandma's house, one arm wrapped around Danny who'd been too scared to sleep alone, Sam had recognised the flames reflecting orange in the wide hazel eyes of the little boy on the lawn.

But the boy hadn't spoken at all that time.

The house needed fixing up before they could move back in, and Mom was getting tired of living with Grandma. She fought with Dad about it sometimes, and those nights were always the ones where Sam dreamed of the boy on the lawn.

"It's okay, Sammy," he'd say reassuringly.

And of course he was right.

The house was soon fixed and they all moved back in and Mom and Dad stopped fighting and everything was okay again.

And life got busy for a while after that.

So it wasn't until the night he saw the big black car that he dreamed once more of the little boy on the lawn. Sixteenth birthday, head full of Driver's Ed, and there was that big old black car, just like the one at the mall when Sam was little, just pulling out of sight as it rounded the corner at the bottom of their street.

"Wow! Cool!" Danny had exclaimed, knowledgeably informing his older brother that they had just been privileged enough to see a '67 Chevrolet Impala, mint condition.

That night, Sam had dreamed of the big old black car, parked in the driveway behind the boy on the lawn, shiny black metal and shiny silver chrome reflecting the same dancing orange flames that had been flickering in the little boy's eyes for the past twelve years of Sam's life.

Sam was seventeen when he found out he was adopted.

Mom and Dad had meant to tell him earlier, but somehow they kept putting it off and putting it off, and before they knew it, Sam was dating girls and applying to college and drinking beer with his buddies behind the bleachers. He was tall and he could pass for twenty-one.

It didn't mean they loved him any less.

They'd been told they couldn't have kids. Unexplained young couple infertility. So they had decided to adopt.

Sammy had been eight months old and beautiful and _theirs_.

And then, of course, five years later, along came Daniel. _A miracle_, the doctors said. Even more of a miracle five years after that when Lucy had appeared completely out of the blue.

"But it doesn't mean we love you any less, honey. You're our _son_ and always will be."

Sam had never felt so alone.

"It's okay, Sammy," the little boy on the lawn had assured him that night, squeezing the baby even tighter and leaning down towards him so their foreheads touched. "I'm here."

The next time Sam saw the boy on the lawn he was eighteen, and it was the night before he left for Stanford. All grown up and excited and terrified and lonely all at the same time. Leaving Mom and Dad and Danny and Lucy and venturing off into the unknown.

Alone.

"It's okay, Sammy," the little boy had told him. "I'm here."

And Sam had believed him, because he knew he would never really be alone.

Three weeks later he met Jess.

Jessica Lee Moore.

Face of an angel, tall as a sunflower, able to drink him under the table three times over and still whup his ass at pool.

And Sam realised he need never be alone again.

He'd not dreamed of the little boy on the lawn since.

Because now he was dreaming of the girl on the ceiling.

"Why Sam?"

And he'd woken up in a confused daze, screaming Jessica's name and clutching her to his chest so hard it hurt.

At first she wanted him to see a therapist. Get some help. It was stress, that was all. Finals coming up and his whole future riding on what happened in the next few weeks.

Of course he'd done brilliantly, his free ride to Stanford Law assured, and the dreams had stopped for a while.

No more Jessica pinned to the ceiling, bleeding and on fire.

"Why Sam?"

Staring up at a different ceiling tonight, twenty-two years old, his arms wrapped tightly around the woman he loved, a brand new ring sparkling on her finger atop the blanket of his old bed, staring up at his childhood bedroom ceiling back in Mom and Dad's house, Lawrence, Kansas.

He'd sighed contentedly, fallen asleep with memories of the engagement party still ringing in his ears, a different woman on a different ceiling, and through the window the little boy standing on the lawn clutching the baby.

"Why Sam?"

And he'd woken in a cold sweat, unable to get the woman's anguished face out of his head, long blonde curls melting in the intense heat, white nightgown raining ash down on an empty crib.

And eyes so much like those of the little boy on the lawn, both reflecting the flames that would forever dance like a wall between them.

The next night, Sam dreamed only of a man's voice, anguished and terrified, screaming a name over and over: "Mary!"

And the little boy on the lawn finally closed his eyes, saying nothing.

* * *

More to come when you least expect it. Reviews are always welcome. 


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N: **Soooooo so sorry about the delay with this one! I intended having Chapter 1 up a couple of days after the Prologue but Real Life, as always, intervened. I'll try to update a little bit faster from now on! All typos are completely intentional. Ahem.

**Disclaimers:** Some day Mr Kripke will want to share, but right now everything is his.

**Chapter 1**

"So why now, why all of a sudden?" Jessica asked, peering at Sam inquisitively over the rim of her steaming cup of camomile tea.

Sam leaned an elbow on the kitchen table, glancing over at Fran as she bent to load dishes into the dishwasher, trying so hard to look as if she wasn't paying any attention. He shrugged uncertainly as he considered her thoughtfully.

"I don't know," he replied truthfully, keeping his expression carefully neutral in an attempt to avoid worrying his mom or freaking Jess. "I guess – I guess I've not really had much time to think about it before," he managed, lowering his eyes to the pine tabletop as he traced a knot of wood with one long finger. "It kinda threw me for a while when I first found out –" his eyes flickered to Fran, who glanced up briefly from the dishes before returning to her rather over zealous inspection of the daisy pattern around the rim of one of the dinner plates. "But I was in high school; I was applying to college; and there were –" he grinned slightly, glancing coyly at Jess through his eyelashes, "– girls all over the place. I had distractions."

Jess threw him a mock-frown. "And you don't now?" She smiled mischievously, and Sam reached across the table to take her hand, fingers brushing lightly across her engagement ring.

"You're not a distraction," he said quietly, meeting Jess' soft gaze. "You're everything."

Jess' lip trembled ever-so-slightly, and a brief smile fluttered across Fran's face as she continued to silently load the dishwasher. "I bet you say that to all the girls," Jess replied lightly, trying to choke back the sudden lump in her throat.

Sam smiled at her, laughing softly. "Only the ones who share my passion for the Smurfs," he replied, indicating the cartoon on Jess' sleep shirt. Then, face sobering, he added, "I just think it's time. Everybody needs to know where they came from."

Jess squeezed his hand. "And we have the whole summer for you to find out," she added with a smile.

"That we do," Sam agreed. He cast a sidelong glance at his mom, who had straightened, chore finished. "As long as Mom and Dad don't mind putting up with us for a while...?"

Fran smile lopsidedly. "You and Jess are always welcome here, honey," she said. "You know that. And – and whatever you find out, we'll still be here for you."

Sam stood then, ambling over to his mother and putting his hands on her shoulders before kissing the top of her head. "I know, Mom," he said, pulling her into a hug as he towered over her. "And believe me, the feeling's mutual. Whatever I find out, I'll always be here for you too."

Fran smiled up at him before pinching his cheek playfully. "My six foot five inch baby boy," she said with a grin.

Sam pushed her away in mock-irritation. "Oh god, enough already," he said, resuming his seat at the table. "All this saccharine's gonna make me puke!"

"Not on my table," Fran said. "I just polished it."

Jess ran a hand through her long tresses, finishing up her tea before asking, "So where do we start?"

Sam's brow furrowed at that, the smile fading slightly from his face. He glanced over at Fran, who was now busy with the washing machine. "You said my – my birth mother –" Sam stumbled over the unfamiliar words, reluctant to use such a misleading term as 'real mother' in front of Fran. "You said that she died, right? That's how come I was up for adoption?"

Fran stiffened slightly before nodding. "That's what they told us."

"But my father...?"

"I don't know," Fran admitted slowly. "I think maybe he just –"

"Abandoned me?" Sam offered.

Fran pursed her lips. "Sam –" she chided with a frown.

Sam shrugged. "Well maybe that's a place to start."

Fran turned away slightly, gaze wandering to the kitchen window. "He could be dead too," she said softly, almost to herself. "It's awful to think that he could just leave his children alone like that –"

Sam's head shot up so fast Jess thought his neck might snap. "'Children'?" he echoed, back on his feet and at his mother's side in a microsecond.

Fran glanced back at him as if only just remembering he was there.

"'Children'?" Sam repeated, eyes widened in shock. "As in plural? As in more than one?"

Fran's gaze skittered to Jess, who was staring at her blankly, before returning to her son. "Well," she said, shifting uncomfortably. "There was – well, there was..." She stopped abruptly, suddenly very interested in examining her shoes as Sam took a step towards her, gentle hands on her upper arms.

"Mom?"

She looked up then, up into Sam's expectant blue-green eyes. "We –" she faltered. "We meant to tell you," she said. "Your father and I. Someday. Only – only it was so hard telling you about the adoption that – that – we didn't think it would be the best time to – to..." she trailed off, shaking her head sadly.

"The best time to what?" Sam prodded, tone hushed, deliberately calm despite his head suddenly feeling as if someone was trying to crush his skull. "Mom?" a little more urgent, fingers barely brushing Fran's arms.

"Well," Fran began hesitantly. "You've got to remember – your father and I – we were young. And you were our first child, so it was all new to us. And – and we really didn't think we'd be able to cope with two..." She trailed off again, averting her eyes uncertainly.

Sam stepped back, reeling slightly, colour draining visibly from his face. "'Two'?" he echoed, voice small and hollow.

Fran nodded almost guiltily. "You – you had an older brother, honey," she finally managed to choke out, and for some reason her use of the past tense bothered Sam more than the fact that she'd never told him before.

Another step back, and Sam was leaning hard against the kitchen table.

His mother took a step towards him, reached out a hesitant hand, but withdrew it again uncertainly. "We couldn't have handled a baby _and_ a pre-schooler, honey," she said. "There was just no way..."

"How old?" Sam asked quietly. When Fran didn't answer, he repeated the question a little more forcefully. "Mom, how old was he?"

Fran shrugged. "Uh – four, maybe five I guess," she said, trying to match the forced calm in her son's voice. "He had – problems," she added, and Sam met her gaze quizzically. "Behavioural problems. I don't – they didn't tell us what happened to your birth parents, Sam. Just said the older boy was left traumatised somehow, and we really didn't think we were equipped to cope with that."

Sam nodded slowly. "Damaged goods, huh?"

Fran stepped back as if slapped, and Jess rose suddenly to her feet, a steadying hand on Sam's arm. "Sam, that's not fair," she chided him.

Sam's downcast eyes flickered back to Fran, and he bit his lip. "Mom, I'm sorry," he apologised sincerely. "I didn't mean –"

"That's okay," Fran cut him off with a wave of her hand. "But you have to believe me when I tell you, if we could have taken you both, we would have."

Sam nodded. "I know you would," he said quietly. Then, "Do you know what happened to him?"

Fran shook her head. "No. They'd been trying to place you together for a while, but I guess –"

"People want babies," Sam finished for her. "Did you ever see him?"

Fran shook her head again. "No, honey," she said. "That – that would have been too hard."

Sam nodded his understanding, before gazing off over her shoulder, out through the kitchen window to where sunlight was glinting off the car Dad had bought Danny for his seventeenth birthday and Lucy was skipping rope on the front lawn with a couple of her friends.

"Mom?" he asked absently, eyes never straying from the kids on the lawn. "You remember that dream I used to have when I was a kid?"

Fran frowned at the non-sequitur, glancing at Jess, who merely blinked at her. "Dream?" she echoed uncertainly.

"The little boy standing on the lawn holding a baby," Sam reminded her.

Fran's expression cleared. "Oh, of course!" she burst out, smiling a little at the memory. "That was so adorable! You used to pretend he could talk to you."

"I wasn't pretending," Sam muttered, still sounding distant, thoughtful.

Fran raised an uncertian eyebrow. "What do you –?"

"Mom?" Sam cut her off, meeting her gaze for the first time in several minutes. "What if that was him? What if that was my brother?"

* * *

"It's okay, Sammy."

Sam heard the comforting words as clearly as if the little boy on the lawn was standing right next to him, eyes glinting orange in the unnaturally crackling light.

He knew the boy's face almost as well as he knew his own by now: big round hazel eyes, unnaturally long eyelashes, a smattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks and sandy coloured hair that could really use a trim.

Sam almost laughed at that: critiquing a kid who only existed in his dreams for having too-long hair.

He wanted to speak to the boy, wanted to ask him a million questions, beginning with, "Are you my big brother? What's your name? What happened to our parents?"

But Sam didn't know how to ask.

All Sam could do was watch intently as the little boy held on to the baby as if his life – both their lives – depended on it, gazing upwards at something Sam couldn't see.

A hand suddenly reached out and touched the boy's shoulder then – big, gloved – and a masked face bent down towards him, yellow helmet pushed forward over his forehead.

Firefighter.

"Come on, son," the oddly-filtered voice said, trying to pull the boy back across the lawn, back towards the shiny black car. "I got you."

The boy took a step backwards, still staring up. "My Mom and Dad –" he said quietly, clutching the baby even harder to his chest.

The fireman's hand tightened slightly on the boy's shoulder. "It's alright, kiddo," he said, carefully beginning to remove his helmet and mask, trying not to frighten the kid any more than he already was. "It's alright, I got you."

He knelt down in front of the boy then, hand still gentle but firm on his shoulder, the baby starting to wail in the little boy's arms as the fireman reached out to take him.

"No!" the little boy burst out, eyes widening in panic, trying to tug the baby away from the fireman's grasp. "No, you're not taking him!"

"It's alright, kiddo –"

"No, no it's not –"

Clutching the howling baby so tightly.

"It's okay, Sammy. I won't let you go."

"Son, you have to –"

"No." Standing his ground, jaw set, arms locked around his little charge. "No I won't let you."

"Son, please –"

"No."

"It's okay, kiddo. It's okay, Dean."

And then the baby was in the fireman's arms, clutched tightly to the fireman's chest, and the fireman turned from the little boy, baby in his arms, suddenly looking right at Sam.

"It's okay, Sammy. Just don't let go."

* * *

Sam was afraid to open his eyes.

The ominous crackle, the dancing orange light reflected in the little boy's eyes... reflected in the fireman's eyes... the same eyes... they had the same eyes...

He could still hear the crackle.

He could still taste the smoke.

He could still feel the intense heat on his skin.

_"Why, Sam?"_

But he didn't dare look up.

"Jess. No..." Voice failing him. Too scared to open his eyes.

"It's okay, kid. I got you."

A man's voice.

"Sam? Sam!"

Jessica.

Frightened and desperate.

"Jess?"

Sam's eyes snapped open.

Not to the sight he expected.

Not to the sight of Jess pinned to the ceiling, bleeding and on fire.

Rather, the to the sight of a yellow-helmeted silhouette leaning over him, gloved hand on his arm trying to rouse him, trying to pull him from the bed.

"Sam!" Jessica repeated urgently, and Sam blinked repeatedly, disorientated, eyes trying to focus on the darkened bedroom as orange light flickered all around him and a familiar acrid taste clawed at his throat.

He coughed, trying to catch his breath, but there was thick smoke circling all around him, and it was only on wiping an arm across his watery eyes that he saw the flames creeping across the ceiling above him, engulfing the room even as he lay blissfully unaware beneath.

There was a fireman at his side, bending over him, trying to get him on his feet.

"Jess!" he cried out, the noise of flames and sirens and water and desperate yelling assaulting his ears as he tried to pinpoint the direction of the girl's voice.

"It's okay," the firefighter was saying. "My buddy's got your girl," finally managing to pull Sam to his feet as he jerked a thumb over his shoulder towards the bedroom door, where another figure in yellow was leading Jessica out into the hallway beyond.

Relief flooded over him, and, satisfied Jessica was in safe hands, Sam steadied himself against the solidly muscular fireman who, though a good few inches shorter than he was, somehow felt like a protective barrier between Sam and the encroaching flames, as if the fire would never get him as long as the fireman was standing in front of him.

"Don't worry, I got you," the fireman was saying, wrapping a strong arm around Sam's shoulders. "Only, it's a little dark out there, so you gotta follow me out, alright?" He tilted his masked face up towards the taller man before adding, "Don't let go, okay?"

Sam felt his spine turn to water as the words of the firefighter in his dream suddenly exploded in his head: _"Don't let go, Sammy."_

And then he was looking into those exact same eyes as the man in front of him met his gaze quizzically.

Sam knew the little boy on the lawn's eyes better than he knew his own.

Sam was pretty sure he stopped breathing right there because he sure as hell didn't have any air left in his lungs to acknowledge the fireman's instructions.

"Don't let go, kiddo," the smaller man repeated, and Sam merely nodded mutely, too stunned by those shockingly familiar eyes to utter a word.

Tightening his grip on the fireman's arm, Sam allowed himself to be led out into the pitch black hallway, instinctively trusting this complete stranger to protect him from the fiery tendrils still licking at the doorway to Lucy's old nursery, where two more firefighters battled to subdue the flames. His bare feet registered tepid water soaked into the carpet beneath him, even as he resisted the urge to grab the balustrade lining the stairs, which proved difficult to negotiate in the unnatural darkness.

Sam could hear water dripping from the living room ceiling as the firefighters worked to douse the flames upstairs, and he shuddered as his thoughts flashed back to the fire that had consumed that floor eleven years previously.

A fire that had also started in Lucy's nursery.

He coughed hard as the freezing midnight air hit his lungs the second the fireman pulled him through the front door. A blanket appeared about his shoulders as if by magic before he'd even stepped off the porch, Jessica similarly bundled up a few feet in front of him as the two were led outside to the anxious family standing on the lawn.

"Oh my god, Sam!" Fran was almost hysterical, rushing over and enveloping her son and future daughter-in-law in a hug that knocked what little air was left in their lungs right back out again.

"Ma'am –" a female paramedic tried to interpose herself, but Fran wasn't to be discouraged.

"Sam! Sam, are you okay? Honey?" She was pushing back his hair and wiping soot from his cheeks even as he pulled Jess against him, while Lucy wrapped her arms tightly around his waist.

Danny was standing across the lawn with Dad, staring up at the nursery window with such a familiar look on his face that it made Sam shudder.

"It's – it's okay, Mom," Sam coughed out, his voice harsh and scratchy, and it was only then, with Fran trying to hug the last of his air out of him, that he realised he still had a hold on the fireman's arm.

The man was removing his helmet and breathing gear, even with Sam still gripping his sleeve, saying something to the female paramedic about 'smoke inhalation' and 'hospital, but never once trying to shrug Sam off.

When he took off his mask, Sam already knew what he was going to look like.

He knew the little boy on the lawn's face better than he knew his own.

Wide hazel eyes, unnaturally long eyelashes; still a smattering of freckles across his nose and cheekbones. He was in is mid-twenties maybe, hair darker than in Sam's dream, light brown, short and spiky and no longer in his eyes.

He hadn't expected the smile though.

Dazzlingly bright, all white teeth and perfect lips, it reached right to his eyes and then some.

Sam didn't remember the little boy in his dream smiling. Not once.

Neither had he expected that slight twitch; that slight look of – what was that? Recognition? – that passed across the young man's face when his eyes finally locked onto Sam's, smile faltering for just a fraction of a second before returning with added wattage, just to be sure.

"That was a close one, huh?" the firefighter said, gaze still locked with Sam's, still not shrugging his fingers off his jacket. "You guys should go with my girl Elena here," he added, motioning to the female paramedic. "She'll get you checked out."

Sam was vaguely aware that Jess was nodding, but all he could do was stare, mouth hanging open ever-so-slightly.

Lucy was staring too, but apparently for a totally different reason, cheeks bright pink beneath the soot. "Wow," she said, beaming up at the fireman. "You saved my brother's life!"

The fireman finally tore his gaze from Sam long enough to wink at the eleven-year-old. "That's my job, little lady," he said, affecting his best John Wayne drawl, as Elena the paramedic tried to catch Sam's elbow and steer him towards the waiting ambulance.

_Don't let go, Sammy..._

"Wait!" His fingers tightened convulsively on the firefighter's jacket, and the two of them were staring at each other once more. "You – you really did save my life."

The fireman shrugged. "All part of the service," he assured the younger man with a grin.

"But – but –" Sam stammered, voice sandpaper rough, reluctant – unwilling – _unable_ to let the other man go. "We had a fire before," he managed, voice sounding all wrong. "When I was my sister's age." He nodded towards Lucy, and the fireman glanced back at her before raising his eyebrows.

"Unlucky," he said, at last glancing down at the young man's long fingers entwined in his jacket. Still didn't shrug him off though, even though his expression was becoming increasingly more uncertain. "You born under a bad sign or something?"

Sam shrugged, trying to make light of what he knew both Jessica and Fran had already noticed was his rather odd behaviour. "Fires seem to follow me around," he admitted awkwardly.

"Me too," the firefighter returned, only the little laugh he added as an afterthought making it sound like he meant it as a joke.

Sam could tell from the look in those so-familiar eyes that maybe he hadn't.

The fireman was starting to look a little uncomfortable now, and he took a step back.

But Sam took a step forward, still hanging on to his jacket, Jessica looking up at him quizzically. "What's your name?" he blurted suddenly, sounding nothing short of desperate.

The fireman tried to grin disarmingly, but didn't quite make it. "Listen, if you're after a date, I'm flattered and all that, but I don't really play for that team." He eyed Jessica appreciatively. "And I think you girlfriend might be a little pissed with you."

Jessica laughed at that, but Sam's expression didn't falter. "You saved my life," he reiterated quickly. "I owe you."

"You don't owe me anything." And he meant it. Sam could tell from the tone of his voice.

But there was something else.

"Sam Nixon," Sam said suddenly, finally letting go of the guy's jacket and sticking out a soot-covered hand so fast the fireman almost took a step back in alarm.

The older man eyed him appraisingly, before slowly accepting the proffered limb. "Winchester," he said cautiously. "Dean Winchester."

Fran's eyebrows shot up into her blackened hair, and Sam didn't miss the surprised look she exchanged with her husband. "Winchester?" she repeated, drawing the fireman's attention in her direction.

He grinned lopsidedly. "Yes ma'am," he said. "Like the rifle."

Sam saw the colour drain rapidly from Fran's face, and the way Dad moved towards her, hand coming up around her shoulders. "Alan?" Fran whispered.

Dad shook his head. "I don't know –" he began.

And right then Sam knew.

He _knew_.

"Was your mom's name Mary?"

The firefighter dropped Sam's hand so fast it might have been electrified, all traces of his incandescent smile completely melting from his face as he took another shaky step backwards, almost as if he no longer had the strength to stand. "I have to – have to –" he indicated the fire truck behind him with a jerk of his thumb. "And you should –", a wave of his hand towards the waiting ambulance.

"Wait!" Sam took another step towards him. "Don't. I'm not – I'm not a stalker or anything –"

Dean Winchester almost laughed at that.

"Sam –" Fran put in suddenly, a hand on her son's arm.

Dean's eyes flittered from Fran back to Sam. "Your name's Sam," he said quietly, not a question.

Sam nodded.

"I had a little brother called Sam," Dean added, eyes suddenly downcast.

Sam took another step towards him. "He'd be about my age?"

Dean looked back up at him, raised his chin a little. "I dunno. When were you –?"

"May 2nd, 1983."

It was Dean's turn to look like all the air had been knocked out of him.

Another step back.

"I have to –"

"Please. Don't." Sam was almost pleading. "Don't go."

Dean just looked at him, almost as if he didn't have the strength to look away.

"Winchester!"

The harsh bark of his surname seemed to startle the young fireman back to reality, and he finally managed to tear his gaze away from Sam's.

A tall black guy in a white helmet was gesturing at the fire truck behind him. "You getting your ass back on this truck any time tonight, kid?"

Dean glanced back at Sam, deer in the headlights, before returning his attention to his boss. "Coming, chief," he said, all the cocky bravado completely drained from his voice. "I have to go," he repeated, turning back to Sam, his voice catching slightly. "I'm – I'm glad you're alright," he added, and Sam wasn't entirely sure he was talking about the fire.

Dean started to turn away, intent on heading back towards the fire truck.

_Don't let go, Sammy._

"Can I call you?" Sam blurted, sounding like some spotty teenager ditched in a bar by the cheerleader of his dreams.

Dean stopped mid-stride, turning back slowly, pausing as if considering his next sentence carefully. "Station Number One, over on Kentucky," he said eventually. "I get off at 10am."

Sam nodded, smiling.

After a second's deliberation, Dean returned the smile before raising his eyebrows and grinning wickedly. "But don't think I put out on a first date." He turned and headed for the fire truck.

_Don't let go, Sammy._

No way in hell, Dean.

* * *

So a little bit longer than the Prologue, and hopefully a little bit less confusing! Reviews are awfully nice, aren't they? 


	3. Chapter 2

**A/N:** So I was going to hold this chapter over as I don't know when I'll get to post another one, but I really thought it was time for a cliffie. Just call me evil. Yes, I really do have yellow eyes.

I'm glad Fireman!Dean is proving popular. Good job I didn't write Fireman!Sam or I'd have something else to mention in my disclaimer. (I suspect only UK readers will get that joke.)

Okay so this is a bit talky, but we like the Winchester Angst, don't we?

**Disclaimer:** If I owned Jensen Ackles the world would be a better place for all. Well. For everyone but Jensen Ackles I suspect.

**Chapter 2**

Sam fiddled with the zipper at the waist of his grey hoodie, leaning against a tree and trying to look a little more casual and a little less _stalker_.

"Man, this is _so__ Days of Our Lives_," he muttered to himself, eyes glued to the big glass doors at the front of Fire Station Number One.

He didn't know what the hell he was doing here.

Sure, Mom and Dad had confirmed that his birth name was Samuel Winchester, and yes, Dean was about the right age to be his older brother. But they didn't know whether Dean had been his name. All they knew was what the social workers had told them: that the older boy had had 'behavioural problems', been 'traumatised'. Whatever the hell that meant. Probably just psychobabble-speak for 'trouble', Sam suspected.

Of course, it could well mean that Dean Winchester actually _was_ a deranged stalker. Or a homicidal maniac. Or both. Or, conversely, maybe he was just a twenty-six-year-old fireman with eyes that reminded Sam of a little boy in a recurring dream he'd been having since he was four.

But then, Sam remembered, the firefighter in last night's dream, the one who had taken the baby from the little boy's arms, _had_ referred to the kid as 'Dean', hadn't he? He hadn't just imagined that, he was sure of it.

He sighed, kicking at a pebble on the sidewalk and glancing at his watch: 10:01. He'd be out any minute.

Of course, Sam had been standing here for half an hour already, despite Jessica telling him, like, twenty times that he was going to be early.

"I don't want to miss him," Sam had informed her nervously, at 9:25 turning and making his way down the stairs from the converted attic at Grandma Nixon's house where they'd spent the remainder of last night. So what if it was only a five minute walk to Kentucky Street?

God, this was _so_ stupid. He felt like a nervous fifteen-year-old on his first date, sudden memories of taking Chrissie Farmer to the movies to see _City of Angels_ surfacing out of nowhere: she'd sobbed all the way through her burger and fries afterwards, constant wails of "That was so _sad_...!" the only intelligible thing he'd been able to get out of her until he cheered her up by buying her three separate servings of ice cream.

That was the last time he went on a chick flick date.

The side door of the firehouse opened and Sam straightened, narrowly avoiding swallowing his tongue.

A couple of butch guys and the pretty paramedic – Elena – he remembered from last night exited, closely followed by a familiar spiky-haired young man wearing jeans and a Metallica t-shirt, duffel bag slung casually over one shoulder.

He paused, nodding goodbye to his colleagues as he stood, looking around for something.

Looking around for _Sam_.

So he really _had_ meant for Sam to come over.

Well that was something.

Sam hesitated for two more loud thuds of his heart before striding purposefully across the street. Dean smiled awkwardly when he caught sight of him, nodding a slight 'hello' and scuffing his feet against the sidewalk.

But Sam was pretty sure he caught relief in those familiar hazel eyes.

"Hey," Dean Winchester said by way of greeting. "You showed up."

Sam grinned like an idiot, finally coming to a stop three feet away from the fireman. "Yeah," he agreed, jamming his hands every bit as awkwardly into the pockets of his jeans. "Figured the least I could do was buy you breakfast."

Dean's eyes twinkled mischievously. "Hey, I know we kinda spent the night together, but don't feel obliged."

Sam paused a little uncertainly before giving in to a chuckle. "I'm guessing you're an eggs and bacon kinda guy?"

"Only on the first date," Dean replied. "You make a good impression, I might let you buy me pancakes."

* * *

"So..." Sam said, stretching out the word as his long fingers drummed on the sides of his coffee cup. 

"So," Dean returned, poking at his runny eggs with an unenthusiastic fork before laying down the cutlery and taking a swig of his own coffee.

Sam bit his lip, eyes for a second straying out the diner window to the big old black Chevy Dean had parked out front.

'67 Chevy Impala. Mint condition.

"Yeah, the car's certainly cool and everything," Dean was saying, following the younger man's gaze. "But you didn't bring me here to compliment me on my bitchin' automobile, right?"

Sam's attention snapped back to the man opposite and he lowered his eyes slightly. "No," he admitted, eyeing Dean's abandoned breakfast. "You not hungry?"

"Not really," Dean sighed. "And you're avoiding the subject."

Sam looked up, rolling his shoulders. "So I think you're my brother," he blurted, causing a startled expression to appear on Dean's face as the younger man ploughed on without pausing for breath, "because my birth name was Samuel Winchester and I've been dreaming about you since I was four years old."

Dean looked even more surprised. "Huh," he said thoughtfully, clearly not expecting Sam's outburst. "So you – you've been dreaming about me?"

Sam nodded. "Since I was four," he repeated, actually sounding a little like a four-year-old himself at that point.

Dean took another slow sip of his coffee. "Okay," he said carefully. "Not the first time someone told me they dreamt about me. Although I never had a _guy_ tell me he dreamt about me. But hey..." He shrugged. "So...so what did you dream about?"

Sam swallowed. "You were standing on a lawn holding a baby," he replied. "I guess – I guess you'd be about four or five years old?"

Dean's brow creased. "How'd you know it was me?" he asked.

"Your eyes," Sam responded instantly, smiling slightly. "And you've not changed _that_ much in twenty-two years."

Dean blinked. "You said you _weren't_ a stalker, right?" he clarified.

Sam laughed and shook his head. "No," he confirmed. "And, believe me, I'm not hitting on you either."

Dean nodded. "Well that's a relief," he said. "'Cause that would just be awkward." He gazed across the table appraisingly for a few seconds, expression suddenly wistful. "I may not have changed that much in twenty-two years," he said, "but you sure have."

Sam held his gaze. "I was the baby, right?"

Dean nodded again silently, a brief frown creating a line between his eyebrows, as if he was remembering something he really didn't want to remember. "I – I did try to find you," he said, voice lowered, eyes resolutely fixed on his coffee cup. "A couple times."

Sam nodded. "I never – I never knew. Otherwise I would have..." He couldn't finish the sentence, unsure _what_ he would have done, instead ending lamely with a small shrug. The next time he had the strength to look up, Dean was gazing at him intently.

"Tried so hard to hold on," the older man managed, his voice thick and distorted. "But – but they took you anyway."

"It wasn't your fault –" Sam assured him almost automatically, and he could almost see the pain flare in the other man's eyes.

"Never should have let go," he continued quietly, voice oddly flat, almost emotionless. "Not then. I was supposed to take care of you."

"Dean," Sam grabbed the firefighter's wrist firmly, causing the other man to pull back a little in surprise. "You were just a little kid."

Dean's gaze lingered on Sam's hand. "'S no excuse," he muttered. "Dad made me promise to take care of you and I didn't."

Sam stiffened at the mention of their father. "How –" he paused, trying to fathom a sensitive way of asking. "I mean – how did our mother – how did – is our father...?" Another sentence he couldn't finish, and Dean was looking up at him again.

"You said you dreamed I was standing on a lawn holding you?" he asked uncertainly.

Sam nodded. "I think – I think there was a fire."

Dean chewed on his lip. "Yeah," he confirmed. "That's what got her."

"Got –?"

"Our mom."

Sam raised his eyebrows. "She died in a fire?"

Dean jerked his head slightly, barely a nod. "Started in your nursery." He ran a hand through his hair. "I woke up and I could smell smoke. Went out into the hall to see what was going on. And Dad shoved you into my arms and told me to take you outside as fast as I could."

Sam's eyes widened. "So last night wasn't the first time you've pulled me from a fire?"

Dean smiled reflectively. "Not exactly."

"And that's why you were standing on the lawn? Looking up at the fire?"

Dean shrugged. "As far as I can remember," he confirmed.

"Why were you just standing there?"

Dean looked down again, fingers toying unconsciously with the little tub of sugar packets in the centre of the table. "I was waiting."

"For what?"

Dean looked back up. "For Dad."

Sam drew in a short breath.

"He didn't –" Dean continued hesitantly. "He didn't come out."

"And – and you thought he would?"

Dean shrugged. "The fire was in your nursery," he repeated. "He'd gotten you out of there, but I think – I think he went back in for Mom."

"She was trapped in the nursery?"

Dean blinked hard, once more seemingly fascinated by the sugar packets. He glanced at Sam briefly before his gaze skittered back to the table. "Yeah," he replied, voice so low Sam could barely hear him. "Trapped."

Sam digested that little piece of information before cautiously asking, "And Dad?"

Dean managed to meet Sam's inquisitive gaze, shrugging stiffly, trying to make it look like it didn't matter, but Sam could tell it really did. "He didn't come out," Dean repeated.

Sam nodded, trying to exude some sympathy, but it was hard when he'd never known either of the people Dean was obviously still mourning.

_Traumatised..._

"What happened after that?" Sam asked, briefly wondering whether he was opening an even more painful can of worms.

Dean picked up his fork and resumed stabbing at his cold eggs. "They took us to a shelter or something," he replied. "Kids' home I guess. I don't remember much about it. I think I just kept waiting for Mom or Dad to come get us. But – but they never did and – and they just kept _talking_ at me. The social workers. Asking me stuff. Trying to get me to 'tell them how I felt'. Total BS. How the hell did I know how I felt? I was _four_. So I just – I just stopped talking. And they didn't like that much either." He was looking at Sam again, but it wasn't long before his attention slipped back to his plate. "People kept coming to 'meet' us," he continued with a sigh. "You know? Couples. And I knew some of the other kids got taken home by some of 'em." He looked up again, a burning anguish haunting his eyes. "But no-one seemed to want to take us, and I tried, I really tried to – to be nice and – and cute so that they'd – they'd..." he trailed off, shaking his head and rubbing at the back of his neck.

"And then my mom and dad came along?" Sam hazarded.

"That was after," Dean informed him, straightening as he again shoved his hand through his hair.

When he didn't elaborate, Sam pressed him. "After what?"

"After they made me let you go," Dean replied, shoulders curling in on themselves as his muscles tensed. "They said I had to let you go. That – that it was 'unhealthy'. Didn't know what they mean then. Something to do with me not 'socialising' with the other kids. Just sat watching you all the time like – like I was scared you were gonna –"

Sam swallowed.

Dean met his brother's gaze a little reluctantly. "I was so scared the fire would come back for you."

The naked honesty in the older man's wide eyes made Sam's chest hurt.

"But it wasn't the fire that took you away," Dean continued, a strangely incongruous smile on his lips. "That was when they started 'introducing' you to couples when I wasn't there."

"I'm sorry," Sam offered instinctively.

Dean cocked an eyebrow. "For what?"

"Leaving you alone."

"You didn't leave, Sam. They took you."

"They're good people," Sam said quietly. "My mom and dad. If they could have taken us both –"

Dean waved a hand. "Yeah, I know," he said, again smiling that oddly out-of-place _un_smile. "That's what the social workers said too."

Sam bit his lip, wondering how far he could push before Dean broke. Maybe he was too curious. Maybe it was too much to ask of his brother all in one go. But he couldn't help himself. He needed to know what life had been like for Dean. What life had been like without_ Sam_. "What happened to you then?" he asked quietly, dipping his eyes towards the table. "After."

Dean shrugged, trying so hard to find that nonchalant grin that usually came so easily. "Foster homes," he said with a sigh that he probably didn't even hear. "Lots of 'em."

Sam nodded sympathetically, misplaced guilt threatening to choke off his air supply. "I'm sorry," he said again, although he wasn't sure what he was apologising for.

Again that stiff little shrug. "Wasn't so bad," Dean said, quirking up the corner of his mouth. "Learned how to hotwire a car by the time I was ten. Could pick locks like a pro by the time I was twelve."

Dean was smiling, but Sam could tell he didn't really mean it.

"So you were – what? Some kind of delinquent?" Sam was going for flippant in an attempt to lighten the mood, but something unutterably sad flashed briefly in his brother's eyes before being replaced by a strange look of optimism.

"Coulda been," the older man said, leaning back slightly. "If not for Marilyn."

"Marilyn?" Sam echoed, wondering for the first time whether maybe he also had a sister-in-law he knew nothing about.

Dean smiled, as if finally experiencing a good memory for the first time in their conversation. "Desk Sergeant at the local PD," Dean explained. "Sergeant Marilyn Moran, one of Lawrence's toughest Girls in Blue." He chuckled softly, gazing down at the tabletop as his finger traced the odd geometric pattern on the worn Formica. He looked up again then, grin fully restored, eyes sparkling. "I kinda got arrested," he said. "I was fifteen – all mouth and attitude, y'know?"

Sam's mouth hung open slightly. "Not really," he admitted. Then, "So what did you do? To get yourself arrested?"

Dean's grin widened. "Stole a car," he admitted. "Got caught."

Sam raised his eyebrows when Dean didn't elaborate. "And...?" he prodded.

"Like I said," Dean reiterated, pushing his plate away and fanning his fingers across the tabletop. "Sergeant Marilyn. She was on duty when I got hauled into the Precinct. Decided right then and there to make me her little pet project. I guess –" he swallowed, "– I guess she thought she could save me."

"And did she? Save you?"

"I'm sitting here, aren't I?" Dean pointed out, arms open wide. "I was – I was kind of in a bad place back then," his eyes strayed back to the Formica. "You know, physically as well as in my head. You know, I got this 'problem kid' label pretty early on, so I didn't exactly get offered the best accommodations." Something flashed into the older man's eyes that Sam was almost glad he couldn't read. "That particular month, my foster mom was kinda having a love affair with Jack Daniels and the couch, and her lazy-ass husband was looking for other –" he paused briefly, swallowing, "– outlets for his frustration. So, you know, I kinda bailed, but hadn't really factored things like food and shelter into my oh-so-cunning escape plan." He looked up cautiously, as if gauging Sam's level of freaked out-ness.

To Sam's credit, he somehow managed to keep the growing sense of guilty horror off his placid features. "And that's how you wound up stealing a car?"

Dean nodded, averting his eyes. "I had this crazy idea –" he laughed, almost in embarrassment, "– that I'd cover every inch of Lawrence – hell, every inch of _Kansas_ if I had to – until I found you. I think – I think I thought that everything would be okay then. Everything would be okay if I could just find you."

Sam drew in a startled breath and tried not to choke on his own saliva.

Dean again ran a hand through his spiky hair. "Been watching too much daytime TV I guess," he said, laughing mirthlessly. "I had this whole search pattern worked out though," he added. "I figured I'd been to about half the schools in this town, so if you were still here, you had to be in one in the other half. So then –" he shrugged. "Well, I'd not really thought much further than that, to be honest. Figured I'd show up on your doorstep and just charm the pants off your folks until they fell in love with me and let me stay. You know, just like in the soaps?"

Sam wanted to say something but couldn't find the words, a strangled, "So that was the first time you tried to find me?" managing to claw its way out of his mouth.

"Nah," Dean said, again going for nonchalant but missing by a mile. "First time was the day after they took you. Got about six blocks before they caught me. Said I was 'acting out'." He frowned. " Never did figure out what they meant by all that psychobabble crap."

Sam couldn't help but smile at Dean's unintentional repetition of his own earlier thoughts on the subject. "So it was the second time? The second time you tried to find me."

Dean met the younger man's gaze, chewing on his lip thoughtfully.

_Nervous habit_, Sam found himself thinking, wondering whether his own amateur psychoanalysis of his older brother was any more valid than that of the social workers who had labelled him as 'disturbed' and 'traumatised' so many years earlier.

"Okay, maybe I was downplaying it a little when I said I tried a 'couple' of times to find you," Dean was saying with an uncomfortable grin. "It was actually a whole bunch of times, but who's counting? I swear Child Services had me down as some kind of flight risk by the time I was seven. Anyway, that was kinda the last time, 'cause Sergeant Marilyn said I had to live in the here and now and no amount of wishing could change what had happened."

Sam frowned. "And you listened to her?"

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Good advice when you think about it," he said. "I couldn't change the fact that Mom and Dad died in that fire any more than I could change the fact that they took you away and made us grow up alone."

Sam lowered his eyes. "I wasn't alone," he said quietly. Then, looking back up, "I'd like you to meet my family."

Dean did his best not to look too taken aback. "I met 'em last night, remember?"

"I mean _properly_ meet them –"

"Yeah, that girlfriend of yours –" Dean whistled. "_Way_ out of your league."

Sam frowned, but couldn't hide the grin creeping across his face. "How would you even know what 'my league' is?" he demanded.

"Bet you were captain of the Chess Club."

Sam faltered. "Well –"

Dean slapped a hand on the table, breaking out into a peel of laughter that caused the other diners to turn their heads in his direction. "I knew it!" he exclaimed. "No way you would have grown up this geeky if I'd been around, kiddo!"

Sam shifted uncomfortably. "You didn't finish telling me about Marilyn," he prodded, sensing a necessary subject change.

Dean's smile altered slightly, but didn't falter. "She let me sleep on her couch," he said. "At first. Made up the guest bedroom after two weeks. Officially fostered me a month later."

Sam returned Dean's smile, relief evident in his blue-green eyes. "She fostered you?"

Dean nodded. "Yep. Kept me outta Juvy. Got me back in school. Stopped me stealing cars. Got me back on the straight and narrow by getting me to stop –" he bit his lip again, "– getting me to stop looking for you."

Sam didn't respond to that at first, his chest suddenly feeling as if someone had poured concrete into his lungs. "That's what saved you?" he finally managed to ask, an incredulous edge to his voice. "Forgetting about me?"

"No!" Dean burst out, hand moving unconsciously across the table, narrowly skimming Sam's long fingers before pulling back at the last possible second. "No," he repeated. "Letting go of the _idea_ of you is what saved me," he explained. He met Sam's gaze evenly. "I never forgot you, Sam. Never. I guess Marilyn just made me see that there was no reason for my going all Self-Destruct over something I could never have." He lowered his eyes again briefly. "Sam, no amount of wishing was ever going to bring you back to me. Not then. It was just a stupid dream. Wish fulfilment. You can't change the past –"

"Wish I had a time machine," Sam muttered. "I'd sure change that."

"Yeah, well," Dean agreed, shrugging once more. "Maybe if Mom and Dad hadn't died, we might have grown up the Bradys." He held Sam's gaze solemnly. "But we might not. We could just as easily have had an even worse childhood than the one we got."

"I had a great childhood," Sam burst out, mentally kicking himself when he realised what he'd said. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I didn't mean for that to come out like –"

"Again with the guilt trip," Dean interrupted. "Sammy, there's nothing you could have done to change a thing. You got your deal and I got mine. No-one's fault mine kinda sucked for a while. But I ended up okay, right? Shocked everyone by graduating in the top twenty percent of my class. And now I get to ride around all day on a fire truck saving people's lives. Which ain't so shabby, lemmetellya."

Sam nodded. "I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you."

Dean grinned. "Me either. I'd be home in bed right now."

"Oh god!" Sam burst out. "You're on a night shift! I forgot, I'm sorry –"

"Is 'sorry' your favourite word, Sammy?" Dean asked. "'Cause we're really gonna have to work on that –"

"No-one's called me 'Sammy' since I was, like, twelve, dude," Sam pointed out.

Dean's face lit up in mock disbelief. "When it suits you so perfectly?" he said. "Say it aint' so, Sammy!"

Sam tried to look annoyed but didn't quite pull it off, what with that toothy grin plastered all over his face and everything. He'd threatened to punch the last guy's lights out who called him 'Sammy', but somehow it didn't sound so patronising coming from Dean. Affectionate, maybe. Big brotherly. His voice faltered a little as he suddenly discovered he had a lump the size of Kansas lodged in the back of his throat. "I'd like to meet Marilyn," he managed softly.

Dean's smile slipped a little bit. "She passed," he said quietly, back to playing with the sugar packets. "Couple of years ago."

Sam bit his lip and mentally trod on his own foot. "I'm sorry," he said, for what felt like the hundredth time. "I mean –"

"That's okay," Dean assured him, a genuine smile returning to his face. "She saved me, just like she said she would. And she lived a good life. Got three commendations for bravery. And at least she made it into her fifties, which is more than –" he stumbled awkwardly over the words, "– more than a lot of folks do."

Sam nodded, suddenly setting his jaw and grabbing Dean's wrist again. "You need to go to bed?" he asked, eyes twinkling.

Dean arched an eyebrow uncertainly. "Thought you said you _weren't_ trying to pick me up?"

"I want you to meet my folks," Sam insisted, goofy grin back on his face. "And Jess. I want you to meet Jess."

Dean considered for a second, momentarily reminded of someone else as his brother beamed at him. He shrugged casually. "Sleep's for old folks and dead people," he said, motioning towards the exit with his hand. "Lead the way – little brother."

* * *

"Wow, this is a really sweet ride," Sam whistled, running his hand along the door frame beneath the Impala's open window. "How long have you had her?" 

Dean glanced sideways at the younger man, long legs folded into the passenger space, leaning back against the leather upholstery as if he belonged there. Which, of course, he did. Sam really belonged there.

Dean cleared his throat, suddenly aware that Sam had asked him a question. "Um, I guess since I was eighteen," he replied, swallowing. "This was – this was Dad's car."

Sam's eyes widened in surprise, and he sat up straighter in his seat. "Dad's car?" he echoed. "How did you...?"

"Eighteenth birthday," Dean replied with a tiny smile. "Some lawyer shows up at Marilyn's house with a letter and a set of car keys. Says the car had been left to me as part of – part of Dad's 'estate'. Actually, I think it was pretty much _all_ of Dad's estate. Anyway, there it was, been rusting in some county impound lot since – since the fire. They'd kept it there all that time, just on this lawyer guy's say so. Part of Dad's Will. Who knew he even _had_ a Will, huh?" He grinned awkwardly. "Woulda saved me a whole helluva lot of hassle if I'd known I'd already _got_ a car when I was fifteen. Anyway, I brought her home, fixed her up, got rid of the rust, and all of a sudden I was the coolest kid in High School."

Sam frowned. "I can't believe someone went to all that trouble to make sure you got – got your Dad's car."

Dean blanched a little at Sam's verbal stumble, but continued to keep his eyes fixed on the road ahead of him. "He was your dad too, Sammy," he said.

Sam nodded. "I know," he agreed. "But – but I already have a dad. And it's just – well, it's just a little confusing is all."

Dean nodded. "His name was John," he offered, glancing sideways at his brother. "In case you – in case you didn't know that."

Sam inclined his head. "No, I didn't know that," he said. "What – what was he like?"

Dean glanced sideways again, and it was then that it hit him who Sam reminded him of. "Like you," he said quietly. Sam looked vaguely unsettled, but Dean continued, "I mean, you've – you've got his smile and – and everything." He cleared his throat, eyes once more burrowing into the road in front of him. "And he was –" he searched for the right word, " –solid, you know? Like – like as long as he was around, nothing bad could happen to you?" He bit his lip. "How deluded was that, huh?"

Sam smiled sadly. "I think a lot of kids think about their dads that way," he offered. "I sure did."

Dean's hands tightened on the steering wheel. "Yeah, well."

Sam frowned. "The fire wasn't his fault you know," he said carefully.

Dean shifted uncomfortably in his seat, deliberately not meeting Sam's gaze. "I know," he said, voice distant. "But – but it was his fault he went back in. His fault that – that he didn't come back out again. His fault that..." Dean chewed on his lips some more, and Sam nodded, suddenly understanding.

"He wanted to save your – our mom, I guess," he said. "I guess he wanted to save all of us."

Dean risked a quick sidelong glance at him. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah I guess he did." His eyes slid back to the road, suddenly narrowing as he caught sight of something up in the distance. He straightened in his seat. "That's not your grandma's house is it?" he asked suddenly, an urgency in his voice that hadn't been there a couple of seconds earlier.

Sam tore his attention from his brother's profile, eyes searching the road ahead, shocked to discover they were on Grandma Nixon's street when it only seemed seconds earlier he'd been giving Dean directions. "Which –?"

"The one with smoke coming out of the window," Dean clarified, pointing to a yellow house just up on the right where, just as he'd described, thick smoke was issuing from an upstairs window.

The attic window.

Sam's eyes widened in horror, sudden crystal clear images of Jessica splayed across the ceiling, fire billowing all around her, burning his retinas. "That's – that's my –" he stuttered, fingers scrambling for the door handle, jerking open the door even though Dean hadn't even begun to slow the car down yet. "That's our room!" he cried. "That's where – Jess – that's where Jessica... Jess!"

* * *

Yeah, so that was mean and uncalled for, but I do like my cliffies. Reviews are always nice. 


	4. Chapter 3

**A/N:** So contrary to popular belief, I've not dropped off the edge of the planet. Sorry for the delay. Blame my boss for keep offering me money to work overtime. Herein is resolved the horrible cliffie. Not such a horrible cliffie this time. And hopefully it won't take me as long to update the next chapter.

**Disclaimer:** All previous disclaimers apply. If I owned it, I'd be selling "We're so screwed" t-shirts on eBay.

**Chapter 3**

One word screamed through Sam's head as he launched himself out of the passenger seat of Dean's still moving Chevy:

Jess.

Blood pounded in his ears as his eyes fixed on the thin column of black smoke issuing from the attic window of Grandma Nixon's house, and he could think of nothing but running into the hall and up the stairs, kicking open the attic door, only to find... To find what? Jess bleeding and on fire, pinned to the ceiling?

"No, no, no..." he muttered over and over, the images from his recurring nightmares assaulting his senses as brief panic overtook him, and for a second he didn't know what to do.

"Wait."

There was a strong hand on his arm and a calm voice in his ear and he turned, only to see Dean's eyes fixed on his own, the young man struggling to keep a hold on Sam while he fumbled to open the trunk of his car.

"Just wait," he repeated, gingerly releasing his grip on Sam, as if not entirely sure the younger man wouldn't bolt the second he was released. But he didn't. He just stood. Staring. Shaking. Even as Dean pulled a small emergency axe and miniature fire extinguisher from his trunk.

"You have an axe in your trunk," Sam observed dumbly.

Dean nodded. "Never hurts to be prepared," he said. "And I _am_ a fireman. Believe me, there are worse things you could have found back there."

Sam stared at him blankly, mouth slightly open, for all the world looking as if he was waiting for Dean to tell him what to do next.

Dean frowned, slamming the trunk and elbowing Sam in the ribs. "Look alive, dude," he said, recognising shock when he saw it. "Fire, remember?"

Sam blinked, as if only just recalling what was happening, nodding as Dean turned to head through the gate and up the path towards Grandma's front door. He followed numbly, the whole scene strangely surreal, as if this was one of his nightmares and he'd wake up any minute to discover Jessica safe and warm in his arms and snoring softly against his shoulder.

A loud crack as Dean kicked open the front door soon shocked Sam back to reality, his single barely-functioning rational brain cell observing that Dad's car wasn't parked on the drive, and that the front door must have been locked or why else would Dean have had to kick it open? His heart clenched hopefully: maybe no-one was home and Jess was okay...

Which was when he heard the scream.

"Jess!"

Shoving all thoughts, doubts, and paralysing terror to one side almost as roughly as he shoved Dean against the door jamb, Sam barrelled past the older man, desperation and fear making him insensible to anything but the terrified cries piercing the air above him as his feet skidded on the rug running the length of the hallway's wooden floor and he began to bolt up the stairs four at a time, long legs making short work of the three flights leading up to the attic.

In the back of his addled brain, Sam dimly heard Dean curse as he charged up the stairs behind him, could feel his brother close on his heels as he leaped the last three stairs in one bound and skidded to a halt outside the attic, oddly surprised to discover his older brother right there next to him as he turned to shoulder in the door.

"Wait," Dean cautioned again, hand held against the wood, expertly feeling for telltale heat spots.

Sam held his breath for a second, waiting for Dean to signal the okay, and when it finally came they both turned and shoved the door in unison, the old wood bursting open with an ear-shattering crack.

And then it took Sam a little longer than a second to register what he was actually looking at.

And a second longer than that to recognise that the oddly unexpected noise in his ear was the sound of his brother. Laughing.

"Oh my god, Sam! Your Grandma's gonna _kill_ me!"

Jessica was cowering in the far corner of the room, a look somewhere between misery and abject terror frozen on her soot-streaked face as she clutched a box of matches and a half-melted candle anxiously to her chest.

Dean had a grin the size of his Chevy plastered across his face as he crossed the room in two long strides, casually raising the fire extinguisher and easily puffing out the flames that were steadily consuming the hideous polyester curtains now hanging in blackened tatters at the window.

Coughing slightly as he wafted away the smoke with his axe, Dean shot a disapproving glance in Jess's direction before shaking his head and muttering, "God save us from women and candles. I swear, if I had a dollar for every time I had to pull some damsel in distress with a sandalwood fixation out of a burning building..."

Jess just stared at him for a second, as if trying to work out how a complete stranger with an axe in his hand came to be standing in her bedroom spraying foam on her curtains. "Actually," she mumbled defensively, "it was vanilla."

The rest of her protestations were choked off by Sam suddenly grabbing hold of her and pulling her into a hug so ferocious she was pretty sure the candle was now little more than a smear of wax down the front of her t-shirt.

She looked up at him uncertainly, a little thrown by his over-protective overreaction. "Well, hey handsome," she said tentatively. "I missed you too, but don't you think –" She stopped abruptly, suddenly realizing there were tears on Sam's cheeks. "Sam?" she said, fear suddenly creeping into her voice even as she tried to downplay the situation. "You okay? It was only a candle. I'll pay for the curtains, I swear! Your grandma won't even know I tried to set fire to her house while she was out shopping –"

Sam wasn't entirely sure whether he was laughing or crying, his lungs suddenly full of something that wasn't smoke but seemed equally as adept at choking up his airway.

"Sam –?" Jess was starting to sound a little alarmed by Sam's excessive show of emotion as a mangled sob escaped his lips. "It was just a candle..."

"You're okay!" Sam was suddenly muttering against her hair, arms wrapped tightly around her shoulders, almost pulling her off her feet. "You're okay..."

"Sam? Honey, I'm fine. Just a slight wick versus curtain versus sudden gust of wind situation. It's not a huge deal, I swear!"

Sam was laughing now; kissing Jess's forehead and laughing. "You're such a dork," he told her through a mixture of her hair and his own relieved tears.

Jess snorted, kissing Sam playfully before suddenly remembering the axe guy was still standing by the smouldering curtains. Then she remembered where she'd last seen him. "Oh!" she burst out. "You're the fireman!"

Relieved to be back in the conversation, Dean casually twirled the axe like a cheerleader's baton while practicing his best ladykiller smile. "Yeah, most chicks don't recognise me with my clothes on," he told her.

Sam, finally returning to himself and remembering Dean was there, coughed apologetically. "Er. Yeah. Jess? You remember Dean? Kinda my brother, I guess."

Dean frowned. "Only 'kinda'?" he asked, before tipping an imaginary Stetson in Jessica's direction and realigning his grin. "Nice to meet you properly, little lady," he drawled. "Hopefully there won't be a fire _every_ time we bump into each other."

Jess just looked at him as if sizing him up, before smiling faintly. "Yeah, I can see how that could get awkward," she agreed. Then, suddenly looking back up at Sam and without any preamble she asked, "So why the ceiling?"

Sam's face paled as if she'd slapped him. "W-what?" he stammered, eyes skittering from Jess to Dean, who's face had turned a similar shade of pale.

"When you guys made your oh-so-dramatic entrance?" Jess continued. "The first thing both of you looked at when you opened the door was the ceiling. What were you expecting to see up there?"

Sam fought the urge to look up, instead stealing another uncertain glance in Dean's direction, who was pointedly staring at the carpet, shuffling his feet uncomfortably.

"Sam?" Jess prodded.

Sam took a deep breath, glanced at the ruined curtains and the soot on Jess's cheeks, before muttering, "Maybe we should get this mess cleared up..."

"Sam?" Jessica's tone was a little more insistent. She rubbed a knuckle against his chest. "The ceiling?"

Sam actually did look up that time, anxiously blinking back the image of Jess burning to ash that lurked behind his eyelids every waking minute.

Dean was watching him, a wide-eyed look of nervous puzzlement on his face, as if he was waiting for Sam to tell him something he really didn't want to hear.

"It was –" Sam faltered, finally meeting Jess's upturned gaze as he ran a gentle thumb across her cheek, smearing the soot still further. "Bad dream," he managed to choke out, eyes sliding back to the blackened curtains as he shook his head dismissively, a fake smile tugging unconvincingly at the corners of his mouth. "That's all."

"What did you dream about?" Jess and Dean glanced briefly at one another as the question issued simultaneously from both of their mouths.

Sam laughed mirthlessly, shrugging his shoulders as if it didn't matter.

"Sam...?" Dean said the word with such quiet authority that Sam actually straightened as he turned to meet his older brother's inquisitive gaze.

And it was then that Dean saw it in Sam's eyes, and his knees almost buckled right out from under him.

"_Take your brother outside as fast as you can," _Dad had said, handing his eldest son the warm, writhing bundle of blankets that was baby Sammy.

And it was in that split second Dean had seen something in his father's eyes that he had hoped to never see again: Despair. Terror. The crushing realisation of impending failure.

That was Dean's abiding memory of his father.

When he had turned away from him for the last time in that smoke-filled hallway, there had been no determination, no fight, no desperate hope of miraculous salvation on his face.

Dean could see only dull acceptance; a father's acceptance of his own failure to protect his family.

And the light draining right out of his dark eyes.

Dad had given in. Given in and accepted it. Just accepted it.

And Dean could see it reflected in Sam's eyes right now: He was teetering on that very knife edge between determination and acceptance, between hope and despair. Did he just give in to Fate? To Destiny? No matter what he did, would the future always be irrevocably set in stone just because he dreamed it that way?

"Sam. What did you see?"

And Dean barely dared ask the question.

Still less did he truly want to know the answer.

Sam glanced from his brother back to Jessica, expression softening as he gently took the matches and the squashed candle from her hands and guided her to the edge of the bed, where she sat, trepidation obvious on her face.

"Sam?"

Sam perched next to her, taking hold of her hands and squeezing them tightly, almost as if he was too terrified to let her go.

He took a deep breath.

"For a few weeks now," he began slowly, eyes steadily locked on those of the girl in front of him, "I've been having this recurring nightmare."

"I've noticed," Jess muttered softly.

"And – and it was a nightmare about you, Jess," Sam was squeezing her hands even tighter, gazing into her eyes as if he could somehow hold her there forever as long as he didn't look away. "And you were – you were –" He swallowed hard, taking another deep breath. "You were on the – on the ceiling. Pinned up there. Bleeding. On fire."

The involuntary whimper of shock Sam heard next didn't come from Jessica, who was staring up at him as if he'd just told her he was an alien.

No. The sound had come from Dean.

He tried to cover it up with a cough, as if the barely-smouldering remnants of the curtains could really be enough to irritate his respiratory system.

Sam twisted towards him, still gripping Jessica's hands but completely focussed on his brother. "You looked at the ceiling too," he said quietly, eyes pinning Dean in an almost accusatory stare. "Why? Did – did you have the dream too?"

Dean fidgeted, unable to hold Sam's gaze, fingers twirling the axe almost unconsciously.

"Dean." Sam's tone was every bit as commanding as his brother's had been earlier.

Dean took a breath. "It wasn't a dream," he said at length, suddenly acutely aware that Sam and Jessica were essentially strangers to him, and that the only other person he'd ever trusted with this had been Marilyn. "Although at first I tried to convince myself it was a nightmare." He ran a hand through his hair. "But – but the more I dreamed it, the more I realised it wasn't just a dream." He met Sam's gaze uncertainly. "It was a memory."

Sam shifted. "A memory?" he echoed. "Of – of what?"

Dean bit his lip. "Mom."

Sam rose to his feet very, very slowly. "What – Dean? What happened to her?"

Dean peered up at him hesitantly, and Sam took a step towards him when he didn't answer.

"Dean? This – I think this might be important." There was a slight tremor of desperation in his voice as he glanced back at Jessica. "I think maybe this is the reason why –"

"No," Dean said flatly, shaking his head. "It's a memory. Not a dream. You're not dreaming the future, Sam –"

"Dean, what happened to Mom?" Sam cut him off. "What do you remember?"

Sam's hand was on Dean's shoulder, not gripping him hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to make his presence acutely felt.

Dean's fingers tightened convulsively around the axe. "You know I told you she died in a house fire, right?"

Sam nodded. "You said she was trapped in my nursery."

"Trapped. Yeah." The ironic laugh that issued from Dean's mouth signalled he found this anything but amusing. "That's not exactly – accurate." He coughed, averting his eyes, looking to the bright blue sky beyond the open window. His vision drifted reluctantly back to Sam, who was still squeezing his shoulder. "So Dad came running out of the nursery, right?" he ploughed on quickly, as if the faster he said it, the less painful it would be. "And he was carrying you and he put you in my arms and told me to take you outside. He told me not to look back, but – but I did. I looked back. And Mom – I swear, Sam, Mom was on the ceiling. On the _ceiling_, Sam! And she was on fire. Bleeding. Just like – like –" He glanced at Jessica, who paled slightly.

Sam was beyond pale. "Where was she – where was she bleeding from?" he asked, barely controlling the tremble in his voice.

Dean's brow knitted in confusion. "Why does that –?"

"Humour me," Sam cut him off, deliberately not looking at Jessica. So deliberately in fact that Dean suddenly understood why it was so important his brother know the answer to his question.

"Here," he said, indicating the region across his abdomen.

Sam suddenly let go of him then, sinking back down onto the edge of the bed as if a lead weight had inexplicably landed on his shoulders.

Dean took a step towards him. "Your dream –?"

Sam looked up at him and nodded.

Dean took a breath. "Dreams don't tell the future, Sam," he reiterated slowly.

"I dreamed of you, didn't I?" Sam returned bitterly. "And here you are."

"That doesn't mean –"

"Sam." Jess's hand was suddenly on his shoulder, gentle, reassuring. "I'm not going to die." She smiled, trying to brave, Sam could tell. "You won't let me, right?"

Sam just looked at her for a second, trying to comprehend how one human being could trust another so completely and wishing he had experienced that before he met her.

When Sam made no answer, just continued to stare at Jessica with shining eyes and a lump lodged in his throat, Dean did the only thing he deemed appropriate in the situation: He got his kid brother's back.

"'Course he's not," he promised, uncertain whether he was offering the reassurance to Jessica or to Sam. He put a firm hand on Sam's shoulder. "And now he has a fireman for a brother, no way any fire's getting near either of you again." He plastered on a grin that only partially papered over the cracks left by the thing that was currently whizzing around in his head screaming at him. "That's always supposing you stay away from the sandalwood, sweetheart."

Jess cocked an eyebrow at him, fingers curling around Sam's reassuringly. "It was vanilla."

* * *

"So you just got here and already you're trying to burn down my house?" Grandma Nixon squinted at Dean through her bottle bottom glasses, eyes magnified so big Dean felt like Little Red Riding Hood.

"Actually," Jessica interceded sheepishly. "He put the fire out."

Despite the fact that Grandma Nixon looked like she might eat him alive if he made any sudden moves, Dean grinned Grand Canyon big, holding up the fire extinguisher he'd brought from his car, just for emphasis. "Firefighter," he said, inclining his emergency axe towards his chest before pointing it in Jessica's direction. "Pyromaniac."

Grandma Nixon squinted at him again. "Honey, you should put that little thing down before you cut yourself," she advised him dismissively, turning her attention to the ruined curtains that Jess was holding out for inspection before muttering under her breath, "Well I can see Sam got all the brains in _that_ family."

Jess did her best not to laugh, shooting a strangled smile in Dean's direction over the top of Grandma's head. "Maybe you should put those back in your car," she offered.

Dean grimaced briefly before nodding his agreement. "Yeah," he said, scowling down at Grandma while she wasn't looking at him. "Before _someone_ gets hurt."

He huffed as he passed Sam in the hallway, long arms full of grocery bags. "You didn't tell me your granny was Eva Braun, dude," he groused, heading out towards his Chevy.

Sam grinned, the first smile Dean had seen there since his little revelation upstairs. "She's okay once you get used to her," he assured his brother.

"Just don't go setting fire to her curtains," Fran added, puffing up the front steps with her own arms full of brown grocery bags. "That might upset her."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Hello? Fire_fighter_!" he reminded them, passing Fran and heading for his car. "I'm the guy who put the fire _out_!"

Fran smiled after him before turning her attention to Sam. "He came home with you," she observed, continuing to smile. "I'm glad." She inclined her head thoughtfully. "Not so glad about the fire, but –"

Sam's face, unlike Fran's, was deadly serious. "Good thing he was with me," he said, heading on into the kitchen, Fran following slightly behind. "I seemed to lose all capacity for rational thought as soon as I saw the smoke..." He trailed off as Jessica looked up at him from the kitchen table, where Grandma was still inspecting her wounded curtains.

Fran smiled just a little as she hefted the bags onto the counter, helping Sam unload his own burden before patting him on the arm. "I think God brought your brother here for a reason, Sam," she told him earnestly. "Maybe that was it."

* * *

Dean felt as if he was facing a firing squad.

He fidgeted slightly in the uncomfortable rose-patterned armchair, the Family Nixon lined up in front of him in the opposing seats like something out of a bad World War II movie; any minute now he expected Grandma to suddenly turn a spotlight on him while the others whipped their machine guns out from underneath the seat cushions.

Sam smiled at him encouragingly as his knuckles turned white from gripping Jessica's hand so hard.

Jess bit her lip and tried to smile too, but was still rather wary of Grandma Nixon, who was perched in the other armchair, eyes hawk bright and owl big as she glanced between the two cuckoos in her nest as if trying to decide which one to devour first.

Dean cleared his throat awkwardly, unsure whether to be more afraid of Grandma or of Lucy, who was sitting cross-legged at his feet, gazing up at him as if he were the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

And then, of course, there was Danny, who had this sullen look of intense mistrust on his face, as if he wasn't sure how to handle the fact that his big brother suddenly had a big brother of his own and was a hell of a lot less than pleased about it.

Fran smiled wanly, straightening the hem of her skirt for the hundredth time, her knuckles almost as white as Sam's as she squeezed her husband's hand.

"So," Alan took that as he cue to speak, startling his house guest with the abruptness of his intercession. "Firefighter, huh?"

Dean just looked at him for a second, and Sam swore he saw the words, "Well _duh_!" hovering around the corners of his mouth. Instead he merely smiled that dazzling smile of his and confirmed, "Uh-huh," with a modicum of restraint that Sam actually found kind of impressive.

Alan nodded, wiping sweaty palm on the knees of his jeans. "And a good thing too," he said rather obviously. "Otherwise – well – last night –"

"You'd have been mighty surprised to find me in your son's bedroom," Dean finished for him with a completely innocent grin that was anything but.

Jess almost choked on the lemonade she'd been drinking, trying to hide behind Sam's shoulder as she fought to avoid spitting the fizzy beverage all over Grandma's upholstery.

Wow, she thought _her_ first 'interview' with the Nixons had gone badly...

"Do you have a girlfriend?" Lucy asked suddenly, and Jess was pretty sure lemonade actually snorted out of her nose that time.

Sam squeezed her hand as she buried her face against him, muffled sniggers reverberating against his back and causing his lips to twitch despite his best efforts.

"Lucy –!" Fran scolded her daughter, grimacing sideways at Sam, who opened and closed his mouth a couple of times like a stunned goldfish.

To his credit, Dean's expression never even faltered. "Why, are you offering?" he asked perfectly seriously, causing Lucy's cheeks to redden to the same colour as the roses on the sofa and she averted her eyes abruptly, mouth clamped tightly shut as she shook her head emphatically.

_Take that, little girl,_ Dean thought with a self-satisfied little smirk. _One down..._

"So Sam," he continued, deciding right there and then that a good offence might be his only defence right now. "You haven't told me much about yourself so far. I'm sure you're fed up of hearing about me."

_Oh, you go, big brother!_ Jess found herself cheering Dean on as the family's attention turned en masse back to Sam.

Sam looked mildly surprised by the abrupt conversational about-face. "What's to tell?" he asked with a self-deprecating shrug. "You've met my family..."

"Uh-huh," Dean agreed with another smile brighter than a nuclear explosion and almost as deadly. "And lovely as they are –" he glanced sideways at Grandma, who seemed to have decided that the fireman was more of a threat than the cheerleader, "– you haven't really told me much about _you_. What have _you_ been up to in the last twenty-two years, Sammy?"

Danny scowled openly at that. "How come _he_ gets to call you 'Sammy'?" he demanded, inclining his head in Dean's direction.

"He's still worried I might turn out to be an axe murderer," Dean replied smoothly, turning a wicked grin on the younger Nixon boy. "After all, I _do_ have an axe in the trunk of my car..."

Danny blinked at him.

"You call that an axe?" Grandma put it. "My William – God rest his soul – used a blade bigger than that one to cut his toe nails."

As much as he would have liked to get into a staring contest with Grandma Nixon right then, Dean fought the urge. "So what do you do, Sam?" he asked instead, never taking his eyes off his brother. "You know. For a life."

Sam scratched his head and frowned at his brother's phrasing of the question. "Well, Jess and I just graduated Stanford," he replied a little sheepishly.

"Smart one of the family," Grandma muttered under her breath.

"And next year I go to Law School." Sam thought Dean looked like his eyes might pop right out of his head.

"Huh," he said, nodding thoughtfully and trying not to look too fazed. "Lawyer huh? Can't be _that_ smart then..."

It took Sam a second to realise Dean was kidding. Unfortunately, he wasn't entirely sure the rest of his family picked up on that. "Well, I really wanted to be an astronaut –" he said with a grin.

Dean laughed at that. "You used to have a mobile of the Solar System above your crib," he blurted, stopping abruptly when he noticed the almost physical constriction of air around him, as if the Nixons had all gasped collectively, leaving him wondering what the hell had made him say that.

But Sam's eyes were sparkling. "You remember that?"

And when Dean met his brother's gaze, it was suddenly as if they were the only two people in the room. "I helped Dad put rings around Saturn for you."

Sam continued to grin at him, a look of total wonder on his face, even as inexplicable moisture gathered in his eyes. "What was he like? Dad?"

Sam didn't notice Alan shift in his seat or Fran squeeze his knee. But Dean did.

"Smelled like motor oil," Dean replied as neutrally as he could. "Worked in a garage. Don't know what he'd have made of his son being a lawyer."

"What did he look like? Do you look like him?"

Dean tried to remember. "No," he said softly. "But you do."

Sam digested that piece of information. "Handsome then."

Dean laughed a little sadly. "If you say so."

"And what about Mom?"

The light dulled in Dean's eyes for a second. "Smelled like cinnamon," he managed eventually. "Lousy cook though. You wouldn't risk one of her cookies if you valued your stomach lining."

"She made cookies?"

"On Fridays when Dad didn't work late."

"What was her favourite song?"

"Mm, don't know. Probably something sappy by the Carpenters."

"And Dad?"

"Led Zeppelin."

"_Led Zeppelin_?"

"God's honest truth."

"What about you?"

"Metallica."

"_Dude –!"_

"Don't mess with my music, man. You tell me you're into Britney Spears or Jessica Simpson and I _know_ we're not related."

"Dave Matthews."

"Yeah, okay. I guess I can let that one slide."

"Favourite movie?"

"C'mon. You seriously need to ask? No-one will _ever_ equal George Lucas's masterwork."

"_Star Wars_? Really?"

"True classic of American science-fiction. The original, though. None of this Episode I crap. Your turn."

"_The Godfather_."

"Oh, nice choice, Sammy. Maybe there _is_ some Winchester blood in those veins."

"TV."

"_X-Files_."

"I'm sensing a pattern here. You're not a Trekkie are you?"

"That's Trekk_er_. Watch your mouth, heathen. Okay, lemme guess. _Cagney and Lacey_."

"_Starsky and Hutch_. Way cooler car."

"Not as cool as mine."

"You could fit a dead body in that trunk."

"I told ya, an axe is the _least_ I coulda had in there –"

"Uh, you guys wanna get a room or something?" Jess's voice suddenly broke through the almost tangible barrier that had inexplicably erected itself around the brothers for the last several minutes.

Sam blinked, looking away from Dean and remembering there were other people in the room. Jess was rubbing his arm and leaning against his shoulder.

_Kinda possessive there, sweetheart,_ Dean thought to himself, vaguely aware that Grandma was drilling her laser eyes into him again and Danny looked like he'd quite happily suffocate him with one of the sofa cushions. Lucy, on the other hand, was back to staring at him dreamily.

"So Dean," Fran put in a little hesitantly. "You were – were you adopted? Like Sam?"

Sam thought he detected a hopeful tone in his mother's voice, but Dean looked a little like she'd just slapped him.

"Uh –" he stammered, averting his eyes. "I – was – no." And that was all he had to say on the subject.

Fran sat forward a little, frowning sympathetically. "I'm sorry."

Dean looked up at her, and Sam half expected him to look away again, but he didn't. Instead he just shrugged, and it was as if a security shutter had just slammed down in front of his face. "Not your fault," he said thickly.

Fran picked at the hem of her skirt. "Still," she continued, obviously needing to get this off her chest no matter how uncomfortable it made them all feel. "If we could have taken you –"

Dean narrowly avoided glancing and Danny and Lucy, for some reason inexplicably annoyed with them.

Not so inexplicable really, he told himself. After all, they got to grow up with a brother like Sam. That should have been _his_ deal in life. Not theirs.

"I know," he said quietly, expression purposefully blank.

"I don't want you to think –" Fran broke off as Alan placed a firm hand on hers.

"Dean doesn't think that, honey," he said authoritatively, raking a questioning gaze across Dean just to make sure.

Dean cleared his throat awkwardly, not entirely sure he believed what he was about to say. "I'm just grateful you gave Sammy a good home."

Sam's jaw clenched and Jess felt the muscles tighten across his back.

When the almost unbearable silence that followed threatened to stretch on forever, Dean got to his feet.

"Well," he said with a smile he didn't really feel. "I should go get a little shuteye before my next shift."

Sam stood quickly, the expression on his face almost betraying confused panic. "Don't –" he began, but thought better of it. "You'll be back, right?" he asked, reminding Dean of all the times he'd asked Dad that very question as he left for work in the morning.

He quirked an eyebrow. "You think you're gonna ditch me that easy?"

Sam's face smoothed out into a relieved smile. "Well. Good," he said, nodding, unsure what to say next as his family's suffocating presence suddenly felt like walls closing in on him.

"Thanks for – you know – saving me and all," Jess said with a grin that Dean returned with a genuine one of his own.

"No more playing with matches, young lady," he said in his best mock-authoritarian voice. He nodded at Sam's parents stiffly. "It was nice to meet you," he managed, trying to sound like he meant it.

"You're welcome here any time," Fran assured him, frowning at Grandma as she huffed audibly. "Maybe you could come over for lunch on Sunday?"

Dean looked like he'd just been asked to set fire to a litter of kittens. "That's – um – that's –"

Sam took pity on him, catching him by the elbow and leading him towards the door. "Don't worry. Her cooking's not that bad."

Dean glanced over his shoulder as Sam manoeuvred him into the hallway. "As long as Granny's not got me in mind as the main course," he said. "'Cause, you know, no way this face would look good on a barbecue." He looked at his feet for a second. "It's just – well, it's just I'm not really used to this 'family' stuff, Sammy."

Sam snorted. "I don't think my brother likes you calling me that."

Dean would have quite happily gouged out his own eyes as the words, "Yeah, well he ain't your brother," came tumbling out of his mouth unchecked.

Sam recoiled as if slapped.

"Aw crap," Dean cursed. "I _so_ did not mean to say that, Sam," he said, grabbing hold of Sam's sleeve. "Seriously, dude. I'm an ass. I'm sorry."

Sam tried to shrug it off but couldn't manage it. "Maybe I'll call you tomorrow, huh?" he said stiffly, looking anywhere but at Dean as he reached out for the front door and tugged it open with a little more force than he'd meant.

"Sam –"

"You should go get some sleep."

"Sam –"

"Sam and Dean Winchester?"

Both boys turned at the sound of the shrill voice emanating from the doorstep, twin frowns appearing on their faces.

"Who wants to know?" Dean demanded at exactly the same time as Sam muttered, "It's Nixon, Sam Nixon."

They exchanged a sideways glance before Sam turned back to their visitor. "Do – do we know you?"

"No," the generously proportioned black lady on the doorstep told him curtly. "But I think you were supposed to."

* * *

Just remember, this is AU so I'm allowed to have _Star Wars_ as Dean's favourite movie... 


	5. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Okay, nobody panic! I'm back! Sooooo sorry for the delay - blame BUABS tormenting me - just sitting there looking at me muttering, "Watch me! Watch me!" until I crumbled completely and gave in to its diabolical schemes for world domination... Oh god, Evil!Sam ROCKS!! More Evil!Sam, that's what I say!

**Disclaimer:** Eric Kripke and the CW own all that I hold dear. And a pox on ITV2 for trying to destroy The Mighty Kripke's masterwork by putting adverts IN THE MIDDLE OF A FREAKIN' SCENE!! I'm very calm now.

Where was I? Ah yes... Sam and Dean have a visitor... Sorry this chapter is a bit talky. That's why it took soooo long for me to write...

**Chapter 4**

"So, Ms. Moseley," Sam said hesitantly, motioning his latest unexpected guest to take a seat on one of the wicker porch chairs scattered around the decking to the rear of Grandma Nixon's house.

"Call me Missouri, honey," the woman who had been standing on his doorstep instructed him graciously, taking the proffered seat and eyeing Dean a little suspiciously as he took one of the chairs opposite.

Sam smiled weakly, gaze trailing across Grandma's orderly little garden as his brain struggled to come up with an opening gambit.

"Don't worry, Sam," the woman in front of him got there first. "Dean didn't mean what he just said. And Danny will forgive you."

Sam's mouth opened and closed with only a barely-audible squeak to show for it, eyes automatically searching out Dean's, who frowned at him before leaning forward slightly in his chair.

"No offence, ma'am," he said, voice flinty. "But how do you even know who we are, never mind –"

"– What you said about Danny not being Sam's brother?" Missouri finished for him, blinking at him innocently, and Dean leaned back in his chair, consternation causing his mouth to clamp tightly shut.

"How did –" Sam began, but Missouri waved a hand at him, big brown eyes locked on his now that she'd managed to silence his brother.

"Danny's just a little jealous right now, Sam," she said, smiling sympathetically. "He's a teenager, after all. He'll get over it."

"Okay, lady," Dean put in, suddenly regaining the use of his vocal cords. "Who the hell _are_ you?"

Missouri's smile became a little more indulgent. "A friend," she said amiably, before a frown clouded her features. "Or at least, I think I was supposed to be."

"Begging your pardon, ma'am," Sam said. "But I don't believe I've ever met you before in my life." He inclined his head to one side before adding, "Have I?" a little uncertainly.

Missouri shook her head. "No," she admitted shortly.

When their mysterious visitor didn't offer to elaborate further, Dean put in, "So how do you know who we are?"

"Well, because I've been dreaming about you, of course," Missouri said, as if that should have been obvious.

That shut them both up.

"Run that by me again?" Dean managed at length, glancing over at Sam who shrugged cluelessly back at him.

"I'm a psychic," Missouri explained matter-of-factly, as if she was telling them her star sign. "Obviously."

A look of surprised disbelief settled on Sam's features, while Dean's brow furrowed.

"Obviously," he repeated. Then, "So, you're like Jennifer Love Hewitt or something? You gonna Ghost Whisper us?"

Missouri shot him a withering glare. "Boy, I look like some skinny white girl to you?"

Dean blinked, surprised at the intensity of the rebuke. Especially from someone he'd only just met. Usually took him at least a couple of hours to get a woman so worked up she wanted to slap him. "I just meant..."

"Now that Patricia Arquette," Missouri continued, a small grin tugging at her lips. "At least she has some meat on her bones. And, you know, I kinda wish Alison Dubois was here right now 'cause I could sure use her help."

"What, you're not psychic enough or something?" Dean asked, eliciting another withering scowl from Missouri.

"I'm a psychic, not a medium," she explained shortly. "You know the difference?"

Dean shrugged like he didn't know and didn't really care, risking a quick glance at Sam who just bit his lip and shook his head.

"Not really," the younger brother said awkwardly, feeling like a school kid who hadn't done his homework.

Missouri sighed heavily. "You boys know _anything_ about the supernatural world?"

Another exchanged glance. Another shrug.

"I know that if your head spins and you start to barf pea soup, it's not a good sign," Dean hazarded. "Beyond that, I'm not exactly a believer, lady."

Missouri narrowed her eyes and huffed at him. "Then you're in for a rude awakening, boy," she told him. "So listen up. A medium is a conduit; a channel through which those who have crossed over can communicate with the living. Sometimes the dead have unfinished business in this world, or other times they just can't let go and move on."

"Uh-huh," Dean grunted, just to prove he was following, convinced the freaky psychic lady was looking at him like she thought he might be one pickle short of a Big Mac. "Don't feel like you have to over-simplify on our account," he added, emphasising the 'our', although he got the distinct impression Missouri wasn't looking at Sam in the same way she was looking at him.

Missouri pursed her lips. "Hmm," she murmured, sounding less than convinced. "As for myself?" she continued, leaning forward. "I sense energies; the presence of things not visible in the ordinary world; thoughts sometimes; the future occasionally."

"You're a mind reader?" Sam asked with a disbelieving frown.

Missouri shrugged. "I guess you could call it that." She paused, a deep furrow forming between her brows. "But this?" she indicated the two of them with a wave of her hand. "This isn't exactly my area of expertise."

"What isn't?" Sam asked gently, all nervously rapt attention.

Missouri took a breath. "These dreams I've been having," she explained. "Of you boys? It's like – like someone's trying to send me a message, but I can't quite pick it up. You know, like an old TV set with a busted aerial?" She glanced at Dean sharply as he opened his mouth to say something. "Don't you even think about calling me 'old', boy," she snapped, eliciting a look of blatantly insincere surprise on the older brother's face.

"I didn't say anything!" he protested.

"Well don't think anything either," Missouri returned.

"Look," Sam interrupted. "No offence, Ms. Moseley, but why should we believe any of this? Ghosts, psychics – it's fiction. _Bad_ fiction. I don't believe in any of this supernatural mumbo jumbo –"

Dean quirked an eyebrow in mild surprise. "What he said," he agreed.

Missouri nodded, no trace of offence on her placid features. "I think that's the problem," she said cryptically. "I think that's what these dreams are trying to tell me. They're a warning. A warning that you boys are in danger because you don't know what's really out there in the dark – what's waiting for you... You're not prepared. You're not ready to face it..."

"Face what?" Sam asked hesitantly.

Missouri considered him for a second. "Whatever it is that's after you, Sam." She glanced at Dean. "Whatever it is that's after _both_ of you. It's something bad. Real bad."

"Lady," Dean said with a disbelieving shake of his head. "Either your psychic aerial is seriously on the fritz or Casper the Friendly Ghost is feeding you a load of bull. Me and Sam may be brothers, but we only met yesterday! How the hell can we have pissed anyone – any_thing_ – off so much that it would be after us?"

Missouri's frown deepened. "You boys only met yesterday?" she clarified.

Sam nodded. "Our parents died when we were kids," he explained. "We were – we were separated."

Missouri seemed distinctly nonplussed by that snippet of information. "But these dreams," she said at length. "It's almost like watching a movie of your life," she explained. "Except – except you're together. As children. The two of you and your father –"

Dean shifted. "Our father's dead," he informed the psychic flatly. "Died with our mom in –"

"– A house fire," Missouri finished distractedly, running a finger across her chin.

"How did you know that?" Dean demanded, already half way down the road to well and truly freaked.

Missouri met the older boy's increasingly agitated gaze. "I saw it," she informed him. "In my dream." She shook her head, sighing. "Weirdest thing I ever saw," she said. "And let me tell you, I've seen some weird things in my time." She leaned forward slightly, gently touching Dean's fingers where they rested against his knee. He didn't recoil like Sam thought he might; just glanced down at the psychic's calming hand then back up into her sorrowful eyes. "She was on the ceiling," Missouri said. "On fire."

Dean shuddered visibly.

"You saw that?" Missouri's fingers tightened around Dean's hand.

Dean didn't answer. But he didn't need to. Missouri could see it in his eyes.

"What else did you dream about?" he asked instead, voice thick as he tried to pull himself together.

Missouri considered. "Big black car," she said. "Scary-looking old thing."

Dean nodded. "Like that one?" he asked, pulling away from her to indicate his Chevy, which was just visible on the street to the side of the garden, crookedly parked where he'd abandoned it after Sam had tried to jump out while it was still moving.

Missouri turned to look over at the street, nodding thoughtfully. "Your Daddy's car."

Dean didn't ask how she knew that this time.

"In my dreams," the psychic continued, "that car was the closest you boys had to a home when you were growing up."

"I never saw that car before today," Sam informed her.

"I got it when I was eighteen," Dean explained. "Last time I saw it before then, I was four and Dad was driving us home from the mall."

Missouri tapped a finger against her lips. "You say your father died with your momma?"

Dean nodded. "He – he went back. To try and save her."

"You were standing on the front lawn holding a baby –"

Sam started, and Missouri looked at him. "What, Sam?" she asked.

Sam's cheeks coloured. "Nothing," he said, rubbing his hands together where they rested between his knees.

"That dream you had," Dean said quietly. "That was the dream you had."

"Dream?" Missouri seized on the word. "What dream, Sam?"

Sam looked distinctly uncomfortable, shoulders hunched over as he awkwardly examined the decking beneath his feet. "I've been having it for as long back as I can remember," he said. "I saw a boy standing on a lawn in front of a burning building holding a baby." His eyes met Missouri's. "That's how – when I met Dean – that's how I knew who he was."

"You met how?" Missouri asked.

"Pulled his ass from a fire," Dean replied with a grin. "Being a fireman's usually a great way to meet chicks... Didn't expect to find my long lost kid brother."

"Fire?" Missouri sounded surprised. "Last night?"

Sam nodded. "My parents' house. Jessica and I were staying with them for a few weeks when –"

"South Harper Street, right?" Missouri put in.

Sam opened and closed his mouth several times before managing a mute nod of his head.

"Well I'll be damned!" Missouri burst out.

"What?" Dean asked, rapidly beginning to lose his grip on the conversation.

"I called you," Missouri said, wide-eyed.

"Huh?"

"Well, maybe not you personally," she amended. "But I was the one who called the Fire Department to your house last night, Sam."

Sam just looked at her. "You – you did what?"

"I dreamed of a house and a fire," Missouri was staring at him, hand drawn up to her chest where she twirled a gold pendant absently. "And when I woke up, I knew the exact address."

Sam's eyebrows disappeared into his hairline.

"You called the Fire Department on the strength of a _dream_?" Dean sounded scandalised.

Missouri scowled at him. "I was right, wasn't I?"

Dean shrugged, eyes suddenly downcast. "Wondered how come the fire hadn't really taken hold by the time we got there," he muttered.

"I guess – I guess we owe you our lives," Sam stuttered. "My family; me; Jess –"

Missouri looked up suddenly. "Jess?" she repeated. "Jessica? Your girlfriend?"

Sam seemed taken aback. "Ye-eah," he said slowly.

"She's here?"

"Yeah –"

"And she was in the fire last night?"

"Yeah she was. Dean's buddy got her out right before Dean came and got me."

Missouri shook her head, slowly massaging her forehead. "She's not supposed to be here," she muttered.

Sam's face twisted. "She's not? Well – well where _is_ she supposed to be?"

Missouri looked up at him, a crushing sadness in her eyes, but no explanation forthcoming. "Maybe things are trying to put themselves right," she mused, more to herself than her companions. "Maybe – maybe reality is trying to reassert itself..."

Dean glanced at Sam, just to make sure he wasn't the only one who didn't have a clue what Missouri was talking about. Sam shook his head uncertainly.

The psychic looked up suddenly. "This is wrong," she stated flatly. "All of it. You boys weren't supposed to grow up apart, that much I know. That's what the dreams are showing me: That this life you're leading – it's all wrong – different. You were supposed to know each other. And you were supposed to know me. Maybe – maybe your meeting wasn't an accident. Maybe whatever has been altered is trying to set itself right again..."

"Altered?" Sam echoed. "What's been altered? What are you –?"

"I think my dreams are showing me the life you boys _should_ have had," Missouri said. "It all makes sense now. Dean – so what? You're a firefighter?" Dean nodded. "And you Sam?"

"I'm going to Law School in the Fall," Sam replied uncertainly.

"That's not what I've been seeing," Missouri told them. "That's not the life the dreams have been showing me. In my dreams, you grew up with your father. Together. He trained you to fight the evil in this world; the evil that's coming for you. The evil that took your momma. That was his purpose in life: to prepare you so you wouldn't fail, wouldn't falter, wouldn't be vulnerable, wouldn't –" She stopped abruptly, biting her lip and running a hand across her face.

"Wouldn't what?" Sam asked breathlessly.

For a second, Missouri couldn't look at him. "It's marked you, Sam. The thing that took your mom. It's marked you and I think that maybe all of this – this life you're living – is its way of getting to you – making you do whatever it is it wants you to do."

Sam blanched slightly. "What does – what does it want me to do?" he barely dared ask.

Through a great effort of will, Missouri managed to maintain eye contact. "Honestly?" she said quietly. "I don't know. But I – I don't think it's good."

Sam digested that for a second. "But I – I'm nothing special," he stammered, panic beginning to gnaw deep in his stomach. "I'm just a law student. Why would something – something evil be after me? What did I do? Why come after my family...?"

"I can't answer that, Sam," Missouri admitted. "All I can say is that in this other life I've been dreaming of, you were prepared to deal with it. Your father saw to that. Made sure you were ready. Made sure your brother was ready."

Sam couldn't look at Dean just then. "What does it have to do with him?" he asked, panic beginning to give way to anger. "If it's _me_ the thing's after – this – this isn't even his fight!"

Missouri opened her mouth as if to reply, but for once Dean surprised her by saying something she'd not foreseen.

"Maybe not in this life," he said softly, raising his eyes to meet Sam's. "But if something's after my brother then that _makes_ it my fight – whether we grew up together or not."

"But you hardly even know me –" Sam began to protest.

"That doesn't matter," Dean returned shortly. "If you're in danger, if something's after you, then it's my fight too." He glanced at Missouri. "Right?" That's what you meant? In that 'other' life? That's what our dad was doing? Training both of us to stand up to this thing. Together. Right?"

Missouri nodded. "Here," she chose her words carefully, "Sam is untrained and unprotected." She looked deep into Dean's eyes. "You understand?"

Dean nodded. He understood more than Missouri probably realised. "That's why Dad gave Sam to me," he said. "I was supposed to look out for him – protect him –"

"In that life," Missouri agreed. "Yes. In this one? I don't think so. I think maybe that was this evil thing's plan all along – split you boys up and it leaves Sam vulnerable."

"Wait a second," Sam raised a hand. "That life you're talking about – where we grew up together. Missouri, that never happened. So how could this – this evil thing know that splitting us up would help it get to me?"

"Who says it never happened?" Missouri demanded. "Maybe it did. Somewhere. Somehow. Maybe something happened to change things. We can't see everything that happens in this universe, Sam."

Sam frowned sceptically. "You're talking alternate universes now?"

Missouri shrugged. "Call it what you will. I don't have all the answers, Sam. All I know is that you –" she glanced at Dean, "– and your family are in danger. I think that's why I was shown that other life, why I was sent here: to warn you."

Sam paled. "Why would my family be in danger?" he asked, lips suddenly painfully dry.

Missouri took a breath. "I told you that your mother died in that other life?"

Sam nodded.

"Sam, she died to protect you. And I think – I think your father did too."

"I thought you said he didn't die in the fire?" Dean put in.

"No, he didn't," Missouri replied. "But he did die. When you were a little older than you are now. I'm a little hazy on the details. But I do know he died trying to protect you boys. This evil thing? It stripped away your protection in that life, Sam. First your mother, eventually your father. And – and –" She looked away, eyes distant for a second, before turning back to meet Sam's increasingly horrified gaze, a hand gently catching hold of his, much as she'd done earlier with Dean's. "Sam, in that other life?" She took a shallow breath. "It took Jessica. Just like it took your mother."

Sam wasn't sure whether Missouri continued to speak after that, the sudden rush of blood pounding in his ears drowning out anything but the hammering of his heart. He was aware that Missouri's mouth was moving; that she was looking at Dean, who was suddenly clutching Sam's arm. But beyond that, he could only see the edges of his world turn white as the colour drained completely from his vision.

"Sam? Sammy?"

Dean was calling his name, but he sounded as if he was at the end of a long tunnel, a long white tunnel with a pinprick of darkness way off in the distance.

"Sam?" Missouri said firmly. "Listen to me."

He looked at her, eyes just barely registering her presence as her words continued to echo around his head. _It took Jessica..._

"It's going to come after your family, Sam," Missouri pressed on. "In this life; this one you're living right now. Sam, last night's fire wasn't the first there's been in your parents' house, was it? When that address came to me in my dream I checked the public records: I saw that there was another fire in that house eleven years ago, wasn't there?"

Sam heard her somehow, just about comprehending her question. He nodded mutely.

"It started where, Sam?"

"My sister's nursery." His voice sounded thin. Empty.

"How old was your sister?"

"I guess – six months maybe?"

Missouri nodded, but didn't elaborate on the reason for her question. "I think the evil came for your family that night, Sam," she said instead. "But something stopped it; something distracted it. So for some reason your family was spared."

"And last night?" Dean asked hoarsely. "Last night it came back to finish the job?"

Missouri bit her lip. "I think maybe it did," she replied. "To strip back another layer of protection. In this life, it's taken your mother and your father already –"

"Now it wants my new family?" Sam's voice trembled as the implications sank in. "Jess?"

Missouri dipped her head slightly. "And Dean."

Dean looked up at her, expression caught somewhere between fear and stubborn determination.

"You're Sam's last line of defence, Dean," Missouri continued, catching hold of the young man's wrist and looking him right in the eye, just to make sure he understood what she was saying. "You boys weren't supposed to meet in this life, not according to whatever scheme this evil thing had in mind. Something has upset its plans and I think it's looking for a way to put things right." She squeezed Dean's wrist tightly, pinning him in her intensely dark gaze. "It's going to come after you next, Dean. I'm certain of it."

"Did it –" Dean began to ask, but realised he didn't have enough air in his lungs to finish the question. He drew in a slow, deliberately even breath. "Did it kill me in that other life?" he managed eventually. "Did I die with Dad?"

Missouri's brow crinkled. "I told you. Whatever's trying to get through to me has kept your father's death very vague in these dreams I'm being sent. Everything else – your mother's death, you childhoods – has been clearer. Kind of like an old movie playing out for my eyes only. A lot easier to get a sense of what's going on." She sighed, finally releasing Dean's wrist and shifting in her seat. "But your father's death?" she continued, shaking her head. "That's been limited to – to feelings; impressions. The things I usually pick up on in the waking world." She held Dean's gaze thoughtfully. "I think your father did something to save you. When the evil finally came for you in that life. I think he did something he shouldn't have –"

"Sam?"

Dean was prevented from questioning the psychic further by Lucy skidding out onto the decking from the open patio door. She glanced once at Missouri before turning her attention to her brother.

"Sam, Mom wants to know if Dean and your other friend are staying for lunch."

Sam blinked, something so mundane and everyday as food preparation jarring dramatically with the conversation he'd just been deeply involved in. He'd have laughed at the ridiculousness of it if hadn't been for the fact that he couldn't help but wonder whether there was some truth to Missouri Moseley's dark portents of doom: dreams; alternate lives; mediums. Some dark evil presence stalking him and his family in two different realities.

Jessica dead.

It was nonsense. Had to be nonsense.

"No, honey," Missouri answered for him, turning to look at the child intently. "Dean and I were just leaving."

Lucy turned large blue eyes on the psychic appraisingly. "You're Sam's friend?" she asked.

Missouri paused, an odd frown darkening her features. "I hope so," she said carefully, not taking her eyes off Lucy.

Sam didn't fail to notice Missouri's almost perplexed scrutiny of his little sister as the psychic slowly rose to her feet.

Dean followed her cue, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck. "So..." he began uncertainly, glancing from Missouri to Sam, acutely aware of Lucy standing watching them. "What happens now?"

Sam deflected Dean's gaze back to Missouri, both the brothers staring at her hopefully, as if maybe she was going to pull a magic wand out of that big purse of hers and somehow make this all better.

"Well," the psychic said slowly, hitching her purse up onto her shoulder but making no move to remove anything – magical or not – from within. "A lot's going to depend on whoever's trying to contact me," she said. "Until we know what it is they need us to do for them, all I can suggest is that you boys make certain you keep each other – and your family – safe."

"What makes you think we're supposed to be doing anything?" Sam asked, gaze flitting briefly to Dean. "What if we're doing what we're supposed to be doing right now? What if just by meeting we've altered things...?"

Missouri's lips twisted into a thoughtful pout. "Oh, you've certainly changed things alright," she agreed. "And as far as you two are concerned, as far as _protecting_ you both is concerned, for the better. But as far as –" she glanced at Lucy, "– as far as this _thing_ goes? It's not gonna be happy. It's gonna do everything in its power to reassert its control over the situation." She looked pointedly at Dean. "You understand?"

Dean considered for a second before nodding, suddenly realising that Missouri wasn't questioning his intelligence: she was merely ensuring that he understood the implications of his role in all this. And for the first time, he was pretty sure he did. Dad hadn't put Sam into his arms on a whim. Dad had trusted him with his little brother's life. That wasn't something he could easily dismiss – in that life or this one. "Watch my back, right?" he offered with a grin he didn't really feel, avoiding stating the obvious.

"And his," Missouri said, stating it for him as she inclined her head in Sam's direction. "And you?" she turned her attention to the younger boy. "You watch out for your family." She nodded meaningfully in Dean's direction. "All of them."

* * *

"So does he _really_ have to come for lunch on Sunday?" Danny whined sulkily, shoving a forkful of mashed potato into his mouth and scowling across the table at Lucy.

"Why don't you like him?" the girl demanded, squirting an obscene amount of ketchup onto her plate before looking back up at her brother. "He's so –" she rolled her eyes dreamily, causing Danny to snigger.

"Lucy has a boyfriend!" he sang tauntingly.

"Daniel, how old are you exactly?" Fran suddenly demanded sternly. "Because last time I checked, you weren't eight."

Danny ducked his head even more sulkily.

Alan sighed, helping himself to more vegetables. "Dean seems like a nice enough young man," he said, noting the sceptical look that crossed Grandma's face and the hurt expression fracturing Sam's when he looked over at his little brother.

"For an axe murdering psycho serial killer maybe," Danny muttered through another mouthful of potato.

"Danny, why on earth would you think that?" Fran asked, exasperation clear in her voice. "Dean's been nothing but polite and – and downright charming as far as I can see –"

"Yeah, I'll bet that's what Hannibal Lector's neighbours said, too," Danny continued to aim his words at his plate. "Before he hacked them into little pieces and ate them for dinner –"

"With a nice Chianti?" Sam offered, managing to plaster a smile on his face somehow, before shaking his head at his kid brother. "Look, Danny, just 'cause Dean has an axe in his trunk doesn't make him an axe murderer –"

"Oh no?" Danny looked up at him suddenly. There was something in his eyes that came damn close to anger, but Sam was pretty sure it was actually something else entirely.

"What?" Sam frowned. "Danny, what are you –"

"'Cause I saw a gun case in there, _Sammy_," Danny emphasised the last word sarcastically. "Why's he carrying a _gun_ around in his trunk if he's so harmless?"

Sam sat back in his seat slightly, the frown still creasing his face. "Danny, what were you doing looking in the trunk of Dean's car?" he asked, pretty patiently he thought.

Danny's cheeks reddened. "I – I was –" he stammered. Then there really _was_ anger in his eyes. "Well he shouldn't have left his stupid car unlocked! Especially with a_ gun_ in the trunk!"

"What?" Sam returned. "He should have stopped and made sure his car was locked before he jumped out and ran into the house to make sure you guys weren't all getting burnt to death?"

Danny clenched his jaw and returned to staring at his plate. "I'm just saying," he groused. "This guy could be _anybody_. And we just invite him into our _house_ –"

"He's 'anybody' who saved Sam's life, Danny," Jess put in softly, reaching for Sam's hand under the table.

Danny looked back up at that, just in time for Sam to pin him in a determined stare. "And he's my brother," he added firmly.

Danny recoiled as if slapped. He blinked a couple of times before snapping, "Maybe that's what his DNA says. But he wasn't _here_. Not like – not like _I_ was. And you just invite him in to play big brother."

Sam sighed. "No," he agreed, voice still calm but firm. "He wasn't here. But that wasn't his choice, Danny. He's not as lucky as we are – he doesn't have a family like we do." He held his younger brother's gaze pointedly. "And I think if I'd lost _my_ little brother the way he lost his, once I found him again I'd be hanging on for dear life and would never let go." He inclined his head enquiringly, attempting to ensure his brother understood what he was saying. "'Cause I'd hate to have lost _my_ kid brother the way he lost his."

Danny maintained eye contact with his older brother, grudgingly at first, but Sam could already see his edges starting to soften.

"Yeah well," he huffed. "I guess – I guess that would pretty much have sucked."

Sam recognised that as the closest he was going to get to an apology. "He's never going to replace you, kiddo," he added, glancing around the table. "You guys are my family, right?"

Grandma looked at him over her pile of broccoli. "Told you you were the smart one."

* * *

Sam figured the cavernous room ought to be hot, but he felt oddly cool as he wandered calmly between stacks of steadily burning packing crates.

The flames were licking up the whitewashed walls to the already smoke-blackened skylights above his head, fingers of flame reaching out to caress the piles of boxes stacked almost to the ceiling on every side.

Somewhere in the distance Sam heard breaking glass and raised voices, flashing blue and red lights piercing through the smoke blackening the air as a static crackle above his head caused him to look up.

And his knees nearly buckled right out from under him.

"Winchester? Dean? Kid, where the hell are you?" a disembodied voice crackled, while Sam's eyes locked with those of his big brother looking down at him from his unnatural vantage point splayed out across the glass ceiling.

"Dean!"

Sam tried to scream the name but no sound left his throat, as blood dripped down onto his cheek from the jagged gash spreading across Dean's stomach, unnaturally bright red against the yellow of his protective clothing. His helmet and breathing apparatus had been strewn across the black tiled floor, and with no mask covering his ash-white face, all Sam could see was the absolute terror in his brother's eyes as he slowly opened his cracked lips.

"Why Sam?"

"Dean!"

* * *

Okay, so I couldn't resist another decidedly evil cliffie... More soon (hopefully...!) 


	6. Chapter 5

**A/N: **So my only excuse for the delay in updating is that I was abducted by aliens. They made me slowdance. (Yay for Chipmunk!Dean!!) 

**Disclaimer:** You know the drill.

**Chapter 5**

"Dean!"

Sam thrashed so violently as complete shock took hold of his body that it was a wonder his lanky flailing limbs didn't knock Jessica into next week.

"Sam?" The girl sat up, rubbing her eyes and squinting in confusion at her boyfriend as his hands knocked the contents of the bedside table flying while he fought to switch on the nightlight.

His face was literally white, eyes bugging out of his head as sweat poured down his forehead.

"Sam?" Now wide awake and scared half to death, Jess put a hand on Sam's shoulder only to feel the violent trembling thrumming through his body like a plucked guitar string.

He wiped a hand across his face and drew in a deep, stuttering breath. "I – I had a nightmare," he explained, blinking as he glanced around the bedroom with panic-filled eyes.

"You okay?" Jess knew it was a dumb question, but she had to ask it all the same. "You look like you just saw a ghost –"

"Dean," Sam mumbled, hand flailing through the debris on the bedside table until his fingers closed around his cellphone. "I saw Dean. And he was – he was –" He shook his head, punching a button on the phone and bringing it urgently to his ear. "I think he might be in trouble."

Jess's brow scrunched. "Why would you think that?"

Sam cast her an awkward glance as he listened to Dean's cellphone click onto voicemail. "I – I just got a bad feeling," he explained weakly, disconnecting the call before punching a few more buttons. "Yeah, I need the number for Lawrence Fire Department, Station Number One," he told the operator, voice shaking. "Thanks. Yeah, if you could put me through..."

Jessica linked her arm through his, resting her head gently against his shoulder. He was still shaking violently and she swore she could hear his heart beating a thunderous tattoo against his chest.

"Hi," Sam suddenly said into the phone. "My name's Sam Nixon. I'm trying to contact Dean Winchester. Yeah. No, he's – he's my brother. Yes, this is an emergency." He paused, listening intently. "How long ago did they leave? A warehouse fire? Can you give me the address?" He fumbled for a pen, hand shaking almost too much to allow him to scribble down the information he was being given. "Okay. Okay thanks." He disconnected with a click, snatching up the piece of paper and launching himself off the bed.

"Sam?" Jessica turned wide, alarmed eyes on him as he hurriedly threw on some clothes. "Sam, where are you –?"

"Don't worry," Sam bent and quickly kissed her forehead.

"Sam, it's two in the morning –"

"Then go back to sleep," Sam advised, tugging open the bedroom door while Jess just stared at him open-mouthed. "Don't worry," he repeated. "I'm sure it's nothing."

* * *

This certainly wasn't nothing, Sam thought to himself as he parked Jess's beat up old Beetle in front of the address he'd hurriedly scribbled down on a scrap of motel stationery pilfered on their way from Palo Alto.

There were four fire trucks parked outside the warehouse complex, guys and girls in yellow darting around in a dance of well-orchestrated near-chaos tugging lengths of hose in their wakes.

The night sky was lit up orange above the main warehouse itself as flames leapt out of the collapsing roof and reached up towards the dark clouds, thick smoke belching out of the broken windows and blotting out the crescent moon.

Sam's mouth hung open slightly as he stared at the scene in front of him, heart leaping into his throat as his brain processed a single thought: _Dean's in there_. The person he'd spoken to at the fire house had confirmed it, so whether his dream meant anything or not, his newly-discovered older brother was still somewhere inside that burning building.

He swallowed back the sudden lump in his throat, unfolding his long body out of the little car just as he spotted Elena, the paramedic who'd taken care of him the night before. She was tending to a firefighter who was sat in the back of her rig, soot streaked across his face as he sucked on the oxygen mask he held over his nose and mouth.

"Hey – Elena, right?"

The paramedic turned, frowning in concern as she caught sight of Sam striding across the road towards her.

"You shouldn't be here," she told him sharply. "Civilians should stay behind the cordon –" She indicated a couple of police officers endeavouring to hold back the gathering crowd of onlookers who were huddled on the other side of the street.

"No," Sam protested, not entirely sure of his game plan. What could he say? 'I just had a dream my brother was pinned to the ceiling and is about to burst into flames in there'? "I'm – I'm Dean Winchester's brother," he said instead. "You remember? From last night?"

Elena's face scrunched still further, and the fireman's eyebrows disappeared into his thick black hair. "You're Winchester's _brother_?" Elena repeated, glancing sideways at the fireman, who shrugged. "He never said –"

"Long story," Sam said urgently, completely avoiding any explanation. "It's kinda complicated. Look, I have to find Dean right now. I think he might be in danger. You know where he is?"

The firefighter squinted at him, removing his oxygen mask for a second. "Kid," he said, breathing shallow. "You see that big building on fire behind you? Well that's what your brother does for a living: puts out fires. He's probably in danger most days." He shrugged, sighing. "And he's probably kinda busy. This ain't Bring Your Brother To Work Day as far as I know."

Sam was on the verge of launching into the whole 'Dude, I'm not an idiot!' speech, but was interrupted by the black guy in the white helmet he remembered from last night suddenly looming around the side of the ambulance.

"Rodriguez?" he barked, startling the paramedic, who spun to face him. "Is Collins done or what? We're getting creamed out here."

"I'm okay, boss –" the fireman began.

"And on top of everything –" the black guy, who Sam guessed was in charge, interrupted, "– Hutchinson and Winchester seem to have decided to take it upon themselves to go AWOL –"

Sam straightened, pouncing on the man's words. "They're missing?" he demanded, causing the boss – whose name tag announced him as Maddison – to squint at him suspiciously.

"And who the hell are you?" Maddison demanded right back.

Sam flinched slightly. "Dean Winchester's brother," he replied meekly.

Maddison's expression softened somewhat. "Oh," he said, the word still coming out as a bark even as he averted his eyes slightly. "Well you shouldn't really be here –" he began.

"Where was he last seen?" Sam ploughed on regardless.

Maddison considered for a second. "Lost radio contact a few minutes ago," he explained. "They were checking out an annex around the back." He pointed over to a long, low building just visible to the rear of the main warehouse. "We weren't sure whether the fire had spread to it."

Sam nodded, struggling to maintain Calm Face. "Okay," he said amiably. "Well, I'll leave you guys to get on with your job. You'll let me know when you hear something?"

Maddison nodded. "Sure kid," he agreed, helping Collins disembark the ambulance.

Sam smiled innocently after the two firefighters, who turned and headed back towards the blaze, but Elena didn't seem even slightly taken in by his act.

"Don't even think about going looking for him," she warned. "He can take care of himself. Like Collins said, he does this for a living you know. Doesn't need you putting yourself in harm's way."

Sam raised his hands as if in surrender. "Hey, I know that. I wasn't even –"

He was interrupted by a sudden bark on the paramedic's radio. "Rodriguez! Need you over by pump one, right now!"

"On my way," Elena replied into her radio, snatching up her med kit. "You stay here," she instructed, pointing a stern finger at Sam before turning and disappearing into the melee.

"Sure thing," Sam called after her retreating back, before turning his attention to the conflagration and his best route through to the annex Maddison had indicated was the last place Dean had been headed.

It didn't take long for him to find a circuitous route that looped him around the back of the burning building without his having to pass any of the assembled firefighters or the ranks of the boys in blue.

The annex itself was a low one-storey affair, all red brick and dingy windows, and Sam's stomach flipped as he noted the skylights making up the sloping roof: Just like the one in his dream; the one against which Dean had been pinned, bleeding and terrified.

He took a breath, trying to focus on getting into the building safely. He'd be no use to his brother if he ended up a charcoal briquette.

From what he could see from this distance, the fire had indeed spread to the smaller warehouse, tongues of flame licking up the outside walls through the broken windows to the rear of the annex where it met the main building. Some of the skylights towards that end had shattered in the heat, and Sam ran a sweaty hand over his face as he tried to figure out his next move.

So what if Dean _was_ in there, stuck on the ceiling? What if something _else_ was in there with him? What if it was this evil thing Missouri had described? What if it was right there, waiting for him, torturing his brother? What the hell was he going to do?

Sam had no clue.

Which, of course, had been Missouri's point.

He took another breath, choking slightly on the acrid smoke invading his nostrils and clawing at the back of his throat. Okay, now or never. Missouri had said he should watch Dean's back, and come what may, Sam was going to do just that.

Sprinting across the damp grass between the sidewalk and the rear of the annex, Sam made it to the big metal doors without incident, one of them already prised open where he guessed Dean and his partner had made their way inside.

Gripping the warm metal, he peered into the warehouse, flinching back slightly as the heat assaulted him, orange and yellow flames already reaching towards this end of the building as they consumed the piles of packing cartons in their path.

Just like the dream.

Sam took a step inside, afraid of what he would find, afraid of what he would see when he looked up.

Raising his eyes almost reluctantly and steeling himself for the shock he knew was coming, he was almost as surprised as he was relieved when all he saw above his head was the glass ceiling, smoke blackened but still intact.

"Dean!" he called out desperately, venturing further into the warehouse, wishing he had breathing equipment like the firefighters did and wondering whether this was probably the stupidest thing he'd ever done in his life.

He listened carefully, hoping to hear a voice, a scream, anything to tell him his brother was here and alive.

But all he heard was the encroaching fire and the distant shouts of the firefighters struggling to douse the flames over in the main building.

He took a few more halting steps forward, rounding a pile of boxes and stopping dead when he caught sight of a yellow fireman's helmet abandoned on the floor next to what could only be breathing apparatus.

Just like the dream.

_Oh god, Dean, please don't be on the ceiling..._ he thought to himself, peering around the boxes hesitantly, heart hammering so hard now he thought it might explode _Alien_ style right out of his chest.

There was a fireman standing in the middle of the little clearing in front of him. Static crackled across his radio as he pulled off his helmet and mask, gazing thoughtfully at something just out of Sam's field of vision.

Again, Sam risked an upward glance, relief once more flooding over him when the ceiling revealed only darkened glass.

"Winchester? Dean? Kid, where the hell are you?"

Sam heard the disembodied voice in stereo, crackling through the static on the fireman's radio, and also from somewhere else over in the direction in which the man was staring so intently.

"Don't worry," the fireman said, his voice oddly flat and emotionless. "This won't hurt." And then he laughed, a horrible sound, rough like sandpaper and hard as nails, fingernails on a chalkboard and screeching cats fighting in an alleyway.

Sam flinched, shrinking back against the boxes at the awful sound.

"That's a lie, of course. This is actually going to hurt quite a lot. But it's not like you'll be suffering for years: it'll all be over soon. Just like it was for your mom."

Sam stilled himself, barely daring to peer around the corner.

"You probably didn't know that about demons, did you? That we lie? Except when it suits us not to." The firefighter took a step closer to whoever he was talking to. "In fact, you probably don't know much about us at all, do you Dean?"

Which was the point at which Sam finally mustered the courage to take a look around the corner, trying not to look up at the ceiling, forcing himself not to look up at the ceiling.

_Don't be there, don't be there..._

He sucked in a shallow breath as his eyes fell on his brother's helpless form, pinned not to the ceiling, but to the wall at which the other fireman had been staring so intently, helmet and breathing equipment removed, but otherwise in one piece.

"What the hell's wrong with you, Hutchinson?" Dean demanded of the other fireman, face twisted into a helpless grimace as he fought to peel his body away from the warm brickwork hard against his back. "Why the hell are you doing this? _How_ the hell are you doing this?"

The other fireman laughed again, taking another languid step towards his prey. "Hutchinson has left the building," he announced. "You're dealing with me now, boy."

Dean took a breath, unable to move his body an inch in any direction. "Who – who are you?" he demanded, trying not to sound as scared as he felt.

"You don't know?" Hutchinson's voice taunted. "Aw, poor little Winchester boys, all by themselves. No Daddy to protect them. No clue what's after them."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Dean snarled, anger starting to displace a little of the terror. "My dad's been dead for twenty-two years –"

"Oh, and it seems like only yesterday I was watching him writhing in the Fires of Hell." Hutchinson chuckled mirthlessly. "Oh wait," he added. "Silly me, that _was_ only yesterday."

Dean glared at him uncomprehendingly, trying not to remember Missouri's warning from earlier. _It's going to come after you next, Dean. _ "Bull," he spat defiantly. "You don't know anything about my dad –"

"And you do?" Hutchinson took another step forward and Dean drew in a sharp breath as his friend's eyes suddenly clouded over until they were completely black. "You think you know him?" He laughed again, deep in the back of his throat. "You don't know him. You don't have the first clue. You have no idea what he sacrificed for you, Dean –"

"Go tell it to someone who gives a damn, freak," Dean spat.

"Like you don't. Like it's not eating you up inside wondering. You think your daddy died to save your mommy? You think that's why he ran back inside your house? That's not why he died, Dean. He died for you. He died to save you."

Dean swallowed, more of Missouri's revelations echoing around in his scrambled brain.

_I think your father did something to save you. When the evil finally came for you in that life. I think he did something he shouldn't have..._

No way. No way he was falling for this crap.

"Why should I believe you? You just said you _lie_ all the time..."

"Not about this. Not about the sacrifice your daddy made to save you, Dean. About the deal he made. His soul for your life –"

Dean blanched. "No –"

"His soul and _Sam's _soul for your life, Dean. 'Cause your daddy wasn't content with just giving himself up for you: He gave up your baby brother too. Just sold him out without a fight –"

"No –"

"Without even _trying_. As if the first deal he made wasn't bad enough. At least then he didn't sell poor little Sammy down the river for you – let him go out fighting at least. But no, 'Do over!' he cries, and begs to change things, to alter the Deal. 'Give me another chance! Let me die with Mary! Take Sam, just leave Dean – this isn't his fight!'"

Dean swallowed again.

"Your dad's kinda short-sighted, Dean," Hutchinson – the thing inside Hutchinson – continued. "Never sees the big picture. The more he tries to change things, the worse they're going to get. More entertaining for us that way, though, so we indulge him. Let him burn a little longer, suffer a little more. Like he thought we wouldn't come after you this time. Just let you live happily ever after just because your daddy made it easier for my father to fulfil his plans for your little brother... Like that's ever going to happen. Demons lie, Dean. All the time. Just you remember that."

"Wait!" Dean cried out as a sudden inexplicable pressure from beneath him started to slowly drag him up the wall until his feet were dangling several inches from the floor. "My – my dad made a deal with you?"

Hutchinson snorted. "With my father. Although I suppose that amounts to the same thing."

"And you're welching on it?"

"What didn't you understand about the 'demons lie' part, Dean? Not very bright are we?"

"And this – this is the second deal he made?" Dean's eyes flicked to a point beyond Hutchinson's shoulder, and the fireman moved as if to turn, before laughing hollowly.

"That old trick?" he snorted. "_Look out behind you!_ Like I'm going to fall for –"

Hutchinson never got to finish the sentence, Dean's heavy oxygen tank suddenly colliding with the back of his head with a satisfying clunk.

Sam stepped back, dropping the breathing apparatus just as Hutchinson crumpled in a heap to the floor and Dean slid unceremoniously back down the wall, landing with thunk on both feet.

Their eyes met for a frozen second, both opening their mouths to speak just as Hutchinson suddenly rolled over, unconscious head thrown back as black vapour began to issue from his mouth like an erupting volcano. It gathered itself into a cloud which seemed to hover for a brief instant before disappearing in a rush up and out of one of the broken windows.

"Sammy –" Dean was first to find his voice. "How the hell...?"

Sam shrugged awkwardly. "Bad dream," he explained, unable to meet his brother's uncertain gaze.

Unsure what to make of that explanation, Dean continued, "That was it?" taking an uncertain step towards his brother. "That was the thing that's after us?"

"I don't know," Sam said, gaze fixed on Hutchinson, who was unnaturally still on the black tiled floor at his feet.

"But it –" Dean stammered, following Sam's gaze. "It – he – had black eyes. I swear, Sam. Totally black like – like..." he petered out, unable to think of a suitable simile.

Sam nodded mutely.

Dean took another step towards him, reaching out a hand to rest on his shoulder, but Sam jerked away from him, mouth compressed into a thin line.

Dean blinked. "Sam?" He glanced down at Hutchinson, who was moaning softly. "You – you heard what it said?"

"It said it was a demon," Sam said flatly, still not looking at his brother.

"Not that," Dean snapped shortly. Then, "Well, yeah, that too. But what it said – about Dad. About what he did –"

"We need to get your buddy some help," Sam interrupted emotionlessly. "He's going to have a concussion at least."

Dean nodded, trying to remember to breathe as he knelt down next to Hutchinson's inert form. He snatched the other man's radio from its holster, speaking into it in decidedly subdued tones. "This is Winchester. I – er – need a paramedic to the rear of the annex. Hutchinson's –" he glanced up at Sam, who was still avoiding making eye contact, "– Hutchinson's had a fall."

"This is Rodriguez," Elena's voice crackled out of the speaker. "I'll be right over there."

Dean nodded, even though he knew Elena couldn't see that, glancing up at Sam. "We've got to get him out of here," he said, gesturing to Hutchinson before adding, "Hell, we've got to get _you_ out of here or my boss will tear me a new one."

Sam bit his lip. "Yeah," he agreed softly, shaking his head as if to dislodge the morbid thoughts rattling around in his brain. "Yeah. Sorry," he muttered, making eye contact with his brother for the first time.

Dean returned his gaze thoughtfully. "From what that thing just told me?" he said. "I think maybe I should be apologising to you, dude."

* * *

Dean was trying to listen to what Maddison was saying. He really was. Something about Hutchinson being taken to hospital. Just a concussion. Going to be fine. That must have been some fall. Where did he fall from exactly? 

But he couldn't seem to concentrate on anything but the sight of his newly-found kid brother leaning his lanky frame against the door of a rusty old VW Beetle across the street with a scowl on his face that looked like it could melt iron.

"Winchester!"

Dean started, eyes darting back to look up at his boss. "Huh?"

"Where did Hutchinson fall from?"

Dean blinked at him blankly, tongue suddenly super-glued to the roof of his mouth. "He – uh – he didn't – did I say he fell _from_ something? I meant he fell over. I think maybe something fell_ on_ him and he – he overbalanced. His – his helmet just fell right off of his head and he – he fell against me and hit his – hit his head against my oxygen tank." He flashed an awkwardly brilliant smile in Maddison's direction. "Almost knocked me right over with him."

Maddison quirked an eyebrow and Dean wasn't entirely convinced the guy believed him. Lying his ass off had come so easy when he was younger, when he had nothing to lose. It was a lot harder when he was lying to protect something he really cared about.

"Uh-huh," Maddison said slowly, eyeing Dean suspiciously just as a female firefighter came running up to them.

"Boss," the woman said, nodding her head curtly.

"What you got for me, O'Reilly?" Maddison demanded, wary eyes still fixed on Dean, who bowed his head and shuffled his feet, all contrite and respectful.

_Contrite my ass,_ Maddison thought to himself. _Kid's up to something._

"Sir," O'Reilly put in. "Just damping down the last of it now. The roof's gonna need shoring up before the fire investigators can get in there, but..." She trailed off thoughtfully, causing Maddison to finally give her his full attention.

"What is it?" he asked, slightly less aggressively that he'd been whilst questioning Dean.

O'Reilly shook her head, running a hand across her chin. "Well," she said with a shrug. "It's the damndest thing. Don't know if it's some new kind of accelerant the kids are using these days, but the preliminary exam showed traces of sulphur all over this place."

Dean looked up at her. "Sulphur?" he repeated.

"Yeah," O'Reilly confirmed. "Just like that one on South Harper last night."

"South Harper?"

"Is there an echo in here?" Maddison snapped, frowning at Dean, who returned to contrite and respectful.

"Sorry sir," the younger fireman said, lowering his eyes. "It's just – well – that fire on South Harper? That was my kid brother's place."

Maddison raised a salt and peppered eyebrow. "Same kid brother who miraculously showed up here tonight?" he asked.

Dean nodded, not quite picking up on his superior's suspicious tone.

"Kid, something you wanna tell me?"

Dean just looked at him blankly. "About –?"

Maddison grimaced. "Your kid brother have a problem?" he asked. "With matches maybe? Found himself some new sulphur-based accelerant to play with?"

"What?" Dean's eyebrows almost disappeared into his hair as he suddenly realised what his boss was implying. "No way!" He shook his head vehemently. "Sir, no. Sammy's – he's not – he's a Law student! At Stanford! Not – not a pyro!"

"Mm-hmm," Maddison didn't sound convinced, tapping a finger against his radio as if he was considering making a call Dean might not appreciate. "Well your brother better not leave town. And I think he better expect a visit from the fire investigator."

Dean risked a quick glance over Maddison's shoulder to where Sam was still leaning against Jess's car, hands shoved in his pockets and a decidedly unsettling scowl on his face.

Maddison turned slightly to follow Dean's gaze, and although his tone didn't soften, something in his eyes did. "Maybe it'd be better coming from you," he said, inclining his head in Sam's direction and removing his hand from his radio.

Dean nodded gratefully. "Yes, sir," he agreed. "Thanks."

Maddison returned the nod. "Well off you go then."

Dean smiled weakly before heading across the street towards Sam, who didn't look up as his brother approached.

"Hey," Dean said lightly, leaning next to Sam so that they were as shoulder to shoulder as the younger brother's dizzying height would allow.

"Hey," Sam returned grudgingly, still not looking at him.

"So my boss thinks you're a pyromaniac," Dean announced shortly.

_That_ got Sam's attention.

"What?" he burst out, looking up at Dean sharply.

Relieved by the eye contact, Dean continued. "And get this: They found sulphur all over the place in there." He gestured across the street to the still-smouldering warehouse.

"Sulphur?"

"Just like they found at your house last night."

Sam shifted, confusion darkening his eyes. "What does that mean?" he asked.

"Well," Dean said, hitching up his hip so that he was half-sitting on the little car's hood. "They're thinking some kind of sulphur-based accelerant." He met Sam's gaze pointedly. "And you've been at the scene of both fires."

Sam straightened abruptly. "_Me?_" he burst out. "I didn't even get here until after the fire had started!"

"I know that," Dean said placatingly. "All I'm saying is you might want to be careful next time you chase me into a burning building."

Sam grit out a grudging half-smile. "Yeah," he agreed, shifting his focus away from his brother once more. "I'll do that."

An awkward silence followed, the crackling of Dean's newly-recovered radio the only sound between them.

Dean sighed. "Sam –"

"Don't."

The older brother ran a grubby hand through his soot-encrusted hair. "Look –"

Sam folded his arms across his chest. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Well I think we might have to."

Sam glanced sideways at him briefly. "No we don't."

Dean took another deep breath. "What that – that _demon_ –" he said the unnatural word as if it were a question, "– said. About Dad – about him selling his and – and your soul to – to save me. I don't –"

"Dean."

"I mean – maybe it's true. Maybe it's what Missouri was talking about when she said she thought Dad did something he shouldn't have to save me. Maybe he _did_ make some kind of deal with a demon –"

"Dean, I don't want to talk about it."

"Sam I'm sorry."

Sam looked up at him. "Why are _you_ sorry?" he demanded, fire in his eyes. "It's not your fight, remember? It's not like _you_ sold my – sold my soul, or whatever the hell it is John Winchester's supposed to have done, so why the hell do you think _you_ should be apologising?"

Dean took a step back, surprised by the intensity of Sam's anger. "No I didn't," he agreed meekly. "I didn't sell your soul, Sam. So why are you mad at me? Sam, if I could change this – if I even knew what 'this' was – you know I would, right? I'd change places with you. In a heartbeat. I'd let that evil son of a bitch come after me if it meant it'd leave you alone. But I'm not sure it works that way. I'm not sure of anything any more. I'm kinda lost here, kiddo. Black eyed demons? People on fire on the ceiling? Pacts with the Devil? I don't understand any of it! I don't get how – how it – what it means. I don't know what happened to our mom, and I don't know what happened to our dad – what he did to save me. Why he _needed_ to save me. And I don't understand what that means for you." He scraped his hand through his hair again. "All I know is that that _thing_ in there? It said it lied. And then it said Dad sold his and your soul to save me. So was it lying about that? I don't know. Was Missouri lying? I don't know that either. All I know is, if I can put it right – if I can – if I can _save_ you somehow? Then I will. I mean it. I'm not gonna let it get you."

Dean stopped for breath and Sam continued to stare at him levelly, face still twisted into a grimace. He averted his eyes uncomfortably, the pain in the older man's gaze too much for him to take right then. "I'm not angry at you," he said at length. "I don't even know you. And I don't know John Winchester. I don't know what he did and I don't know what that means to me. All I know is that in _this_ life, I have a family I care about and a girl I love more than – more than life itself. That's all that matters to me right now. You understand? That's all that matters."

Dean nodded, muscles tightening across his shoulders as he noted the absence of a long-lost brother in Sam's list of most favourite things. "I get it," he said instead, trying to keep the hurt tremor out of his voice. "I get that you want to pretend this is all a mistake. That this isn't happening –"

"That's _not_ what I'm doing, Dean," Sam snapped. He shook his head, sighing deeply. "Look. I just need some time to process all of this. I just met you, and since then my life's gone from –"

"_Brady Bunch_ to _Addams Family_?" Dean suggested, smiling weakly.

Sam returned the smile coolly, almost as if he appreciated the effort but still couldn't bring himself to forgive the only person he had within his reach to blame for the chaos suddenly wreaking havoc on his ordered existence. "Something like that," he agreed. "And I know that's not your fault. I do."

"Pretending it's not happening won't make it go away," Dean observed.

Sam turned away, jamming Jess's car key into the lock and wrenching open the door with a squeak. "I know that too," he said quietly. "But I need some space right now. To think."

Dean nodded. "Okay," he muttered. "That's cool I guess."

Sam folded himself into the car, winding down the window as he pulled the door shut. "It's nothing to do with you," he said, gunning the engine and glancing thoughtfully up at his brother before once again averting his gaze. "I just – I just have some things I need to work out. Choices I have to make."

Dean nodded again. "I get it, Sam," he said, backing away from the car as he suddenly understood the choice Sam was talking about; the choice he was pretty sure Sam had already made tonight; the choice between the past and the present; between that life and this one; between his old family and his new family.

He swallowed thickly, wondering how this could hurt so much when, as Sam had so astutely pointed out, the two of them barely knew each other. "I'll – I'll still be, you know, around. Whenever." He shrugged, wishing that Sam would just look at him. But his eyes were fixed resolutely on the road ahead of him.

"Yeah," the younger brother said, still not taking his eyes off the asphalt. "I'll call you."

"Okay." Dean barely recognised his own voice as Sam put the car in gear and pulled away from him.

He stood there in the middle of the road for a second, just watching the old car disappear off down the street, chest aching almost as much as it had twenty-two years earlier when the social worker lady had pulled Sammy out of his arms and told him to say goodbye.

He hoped this wasn't another goodbye.

* * *

So not much of a cliffie this time. Blame my having come off caffeine.

Reviews always appreciated!


	7. Chapter 6

**A/N: **So here we are again: Another chapter, another apology for my tardiness...

So I'm hoping you're all wide awake and ready for this one, as it's very talky, very exposition-heavy, and very _long_. Apologies for that. But on the plus side, you've only got one more (or possibly two!) chapters to go after this! And fear not - there may be a brief mention of a certain character below... Don't worry. That's as far into the story as she gets.

**Disclaimer:** The Pretty belongs to Mr. Kripke and the CW unfortunately.

**Chapter 6**

The phone hadn't rung.

Not once.

In three days.

And Dean was getting pretty good at pretending he was okay with that.

It didn't matter. He'd survived the last twenty-two years pretty much by himself. He didn't need anyone. Didn't need family.

He glanced at the still silent cellphone sitting there all quiet on the debris-strewn coffee table, rubbing at the back of his neck as he leaned an elbow on one knee.

Three days.

Three days since the fire.

Since the demon.

Since "I'll call you."

But Sam hadn't called.

Not once.

Not a single, "Hi, big brother. I was just wondering how you were doing, seeing as a demon tried to eviscerate you and set you on fire a couple of days ago."

It all came down to choices.

And it sure seemed like Sammy had made his choice alright.

Dean shoved the cellphone roughly across the table and got to his feet abruptly.

Not that he blamed Sam, he told himself as he began to pace his untidy living room. The Universe had sure dumped a whole load of crap on his kid brother's head since it had decided to bring the two of them together four nights ago.

Together.

Like they were supposed to be, Missouri had assured them.

But he didn't blame Sam.

Because, along with an older brother he never knew he had, the poor kid had also suddenly discovered he was marked by a demon who wanted to kill his entire family, had had his soul sold by his father to save his brother's life, and had also learned that his fiancée should, strictly speaking, be dead.

Not a good week, all things considered.

So Dean didn't blame Sam for equating him with all that bad stuff. Maybe he really _was _a pariah. Maybe he really _did_ bring bad luck to anyone he got within ten feet of.

So no. Dean didn't blame Sam at all.

And he didn't need anyone, did he? He could take care of himself. He'd managed for twenty-two years without... And then he was looking at that picture on his mantelpiece, the one from his High School graduation where he was grinning like a Cheshire cat, one arm locked around Marilyn's shoulders.

He still remembered how warm her hand had felt between his shoulder blades.

And suddenly right then he missed her more than he could ever remember missing her in the three years since she'd been gone.

Sam had been gone three days.

How could he be missing the kid?

He kicked the coffee table in inexplicable frustration, knocking the cellphone onto the carpet where it bounced three times before it began to ring.

Dean fairly hurdled over the table, snatching up the phone and breathing, "Sam?" into the receiver before he even checked the caller I.D.

His face fell slightly with disappointment at the sound of the cheery girl's voice on the other end of the phone.

"Oh, hey Cassie," he greeted her unenthusiastically, eyes straying through the living room window and out into the late afternoon sunshine. "No I'm just – I'm just waiting for a call. No it's okay, I got time." All the time in the world, apparently. "You okay? How's your mom...?"

Minutes passed and Dean barely heard a word the girl said, absently managing to ask all the right questions in all the right places that a guy was supposed to ask an ex he was still friends with, his voice full of a smile that wasn't reflected in his eyes.

And then there was a knock at the door and Dean leaped to his feet.

"Cassie, I gotta go. Call you later, huh?" and he was clicking shut the cellphone and opening the front door before she'd even said goodbye.

"Hey."

Dean tried to be casual. Tried not to smile too big. Tried to be the oh-so-cool big brother who could _so_ handle anything the world saw fit to throw at him.

But he blew it all with a single word.

"Sammy."

Sam stood on the doorstep, for once having to look up at him. "Yeah," he said sheepishly, gaze skittering about like a cockroach on crack. "We need to talk."

_Finally!_

Dean held the door open wide. "Sure," he said, beckoning his brother in before frowning uncertainly. "How d'you know where I lived?"

Sam stepped up into the living room and was looking down at him once more. "I'm smart, remember?"

Dean wasn't sure how to take that remark until Sam's focus suddenly stopped darting around Dean's living room and finally came to rest on Dean's face, a crookedly apologetic smile on the younger boy's lips.

"Sammy, you dropped something," Dean deadpanned, reaching down and scooping something imaginary and invisible up from the doorstep.

Sam turned, a perplexed expression on his face.

"Pesky syllables," Dean added. "I'm dropping them all the time. Here ya go. 'Ass'. You want me to use that in a sentence for you, Smartass?"

Sam snorted, shoving Dean aside and entering the older brother's apartment with an odd shrug of his shoulders, as if repositioning his skin. "Takes one to know one, big brother," he said with a skewed smirk.

Dean grinned so hard he thought he might break his smile. "You came back," he beamed. _So much for casual..._

Sam glanced at him amidst his assessment of the bomb site that passed for Dean's apartment, an assortment of clothes, fast food cartons and CD cases of various '70s 'legends' littering almost every available surface of the room. "You didn't think I would?"

Dean shrugged nervously as he snagged a pair of jeans and a Led Zeppelin t-shirt from the back of the sofa, motioning for Sam to sit before looking around for somewhere else to dump his dirty laundry. Leaning into the bedroom, he tossed the offending articles onto the bed – onto a steadily growing pile of similar attire – before turning his attention back to his brother and trying to regain that air of _casual_ he'd been striving for since he'd opened his front door. "After the other night? The whole 'Dad sold your soul to save my life' deal? I thought it was a distinct possibility."

Sam just looked at him for a second. "You really thought I'd do that?"

Dean shrugged again, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "Wouldn't have blamed you," he said. "You know, just put me in your rearview and drive away."

Sam sighed and bit his lip. "That's kinda what I did, huh?" he conceded.

Dean looked away. "Pretty much."

"I'm sorry," Sam said sincerely. "I didn't mean for you to think that –"

"– That you'd ditched me?" Dean finished the sentence for him with a sadly bitter smile. "It's okay. Wouldn't be the first time."

Sam wanted to ask what Dean meant by that, but didn't have the heart to question him further, the pain in the older boy's expression clearly visible through that virtually transparent facade of fake nonchalance he was trying so hard to maintain. "So I've done some research," he said instead, switching gears smoothly as Dean perched himself on the edge of the coffee table facing him.

"Oh yeah?" Dean said, trying to force his face back to some semblance of neutrality. "On what?"

"Sulphur," Sam replied, meeting Dean's inquisitive gaze. "Among other things – you know, the whole Fire and Brimstone thing – sulphur residue is an indication of demonic manifestation."

"Demonic what now?" Dean enquired, sitting forwards slightly.

"Manifestation," Sam repeated. "Kinda like demonic ectoplasm I guess," he added with a grin.

"_Ghostbusters_ fan, huh?" Dean said, nodding his approval. "Man after my own heart." He paused for a second, expression becoming more serious. "So that really _was_ a demon at the warehouse?" he asked at length.

"Looks like it," Sam replied, trying not to sound quite as freaked as he felt. "And I did some digging," he added. "That fire we had when I was eleven? My dad still had the fire investigation report. And guess what?"

"Sulphur?" Dean hazarded.

Sam nodded. "All over my little sister's nursery."

Dean sat back abruptly, a terrible thought suddenly occurring to him. "You think Lucy –?"

Sam's face twisted slightly, and Dean wished he'd not asked. "Missouri said she thought the evil that was after me – this demon – came for my family that night, but got distracted."

"By Lucy?" Dean blew out a breath. "You think it 'marked' her? Like it marked you?"

"I don't know," Sam replied truthfully, voice trembling just a little. "But I saw the way Missouri looked at her…"

Dean hated so say it, but he had noticed that too. "I'm sorry, man," he offered quietly.

Sam nodded. "Yeah. Well. Whoever's sending these weird dreams Missouri's way must be doing it for a reason. Maybe we can fix this somehow. Maybe we can save Lucy; save my family; save Jess. Save…"

"Save you?" Dean interjected, tentatively meeting Sam's gaze.

"Save both of us," Sam insisted, jaw set in determination. "There has to be a way…" He ran a hand through his curly hair before steeling himself for Dean's reaction to his next revelation. "I – I found another fire in Lawrence where there was a sulphuric residue left behind," he said, trying to sound casual.

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Oh you did, huh? Where?"

Sam took a breath. "Our old house. The night our parents were killed."

Dean froze. "Then –" he began slowly, eyes filling with dawning horror. "Then that thing that was – that was inside Hutchinson. It wasn't lying? Mom died trying to protect you from this – this demon? It was in our house that night?"

Sam nodded. "And that's not all."

"Of course not," Dean muttered, running a hand across his forehead.

"Take a look at these." Sam produced a sheaf of papers he'd been clutching, spreading them out on the coffee table next to where Dean sat.

The older brother glanced down at them. "And these are…?" he asked, gingerly beginning to thumb through the papers – fire investigation reports, copies of birth certificates, newspapers cuttings.

Sam shrugged one shoulder. "The internet's an amazing thing," he declared, tapping a long finger on the top sheet of paper. "I did a nationwide search on a few not-so-random keywords: nursery fire; sulphur; dead mothers. In 1983 there were four fires like the one that killed Mary Winchester."

Dean's eyes widened. "Four?" he echoed, temporarily awestruck. "Sammy, how the hell did you find all this stuff?"

Sam grinned lopsidedly. "I'm kinda relentless when it comes to research," he explained. "That's why – that's one of the reasons I've been –" he stumbled over the words, "– out of contact." He didn't quite meet Dean's gaze, and the older boy wasn't entirely sure he believed him.

"So these four fires –?"

"Max Miller in Michigan," Sam began to read a short list of names off the top sheet of paper, "Andrew Gallagher in Oklahoma; Scott Carey in Indiana. And me."

Dean looked up from the papers spread across the table. "You think…?" he asked slowly.

Sam shook his head. "I don't know, man. Maybe. Maybe there are others we can't even know about. Maybe we're just the ones whose mothers got in the way."

Dean swallowed. "Got in the way of what?" he asked uncertainly. "What does this demon want with you?"

Sam didn't answer right away. "If that thing at the warehouse was telling the truth," he said, "then it wants my soul."

Dean shook his head. "No, man," he disagreed. "It's gotta be more than that. These dreams you have – that's how you knew where to find me the other night, right? That's how you knew I was in trouble?"

"I saw you die."

Dean swallowed again. "And you stopped that from happening." He put a hand on Sam's forearm, and the younger brother met his searching gaze. "Sam, this has to mean something."

"Yeah, that I'm a freak."

"No!" Dean squeezed his brother's arm. "That you're – you're gifted somehow. You have the power to save lives, Sam. Maybe that's what this demon's after."

Sam looked at him as if he were the only man on the Titanic with a life raft. "I don't think this is about _saving_ lives, Dean," he muttered despondently.

Dean tried to think of something he could say – anything – that would allay Sam's fears. But he was coming up empty.

"What if I'm supposed to turn evil, Dean?" Sam continued, a hint of desperation in his voice. More than a hint of desperation in his eyes. "What if that's why the demon marked me, why John Winchester was willing to sacrifice me…?"

"We don't know that's what he did," Dean reiterated his position from the other night. "That demon could have been lying."

"But what if it _wasn't_, Dean? What if it's – it's my _destiny_ or something?"

"Sure, your destiny, Anakin Skywalker…" Dean scoffed.

"Dean, I'm serious!" Sam's voice held a note of pleading that instantly sobered his brother. "What if I turn evil? What then?"

The question hung in the air between them, and Dean sincerely wished he had an answer. "I don't know, Sammy," he admitted. The two of them just looked at each other for a second, neither one of them really knowing what the hell they were supposed to do next. So Dean did the only thing he could. "But we'll work it out," he said, a lot more confidently than he felt. "I promise."

Sam bit his lip, for a moment looking as though he was tearing up until he managed to get a hold of himself. "Thanks," he said quietly. Then, "To be honest, I nearly didn't come back."

Although Dean somehow managed to maintain his practiced air of detachment, he felt as if someone had just gone to work on his stomach with a giant apple corer.

Sam's eyes started to skitter around the room again, finally lighting on the leather bracelet at his wrist, which he started to pick at distractedly. "I wasn't sure you'd want to see me again."

Dean shifted almost imperceptibly. "Why would you think that?"

Sam shrugged, still toying with his bracelet and looking like an overgrown ten-year-old struggling to apologise for fighting with his older sibling. "I guess I figured I was messing up John's plan just by finding you." He looked up suddenly. "You know? His plan to keep you out of harm's way by keeping you away from me."

Dean snorted sardonically. "And here I was thinking _you_ didn't want to see _me_ 'cause of that demon saying Dad had sacrificed you to save me."

Sam looked at him sheepishly. "Pretty stupid, huh?"

"I thought you were the smart one?"

Sam shook his head. "Sometimes I wonder..."

Dean put a hand on Sam's wrist. "And I don't think that was Dad's plan, Sam," he said seriously. "No way he'd sell you out to save me. No way. How could he have known we'd get split up? You think he'd have wanted that for us?"

Sam met his brother's earnest gaze thoughtfully, opening his mouth to answer, but cut off by his cellphone suddenly bursting into a peel of some emo rock chick crap Dean didn't even want to speculate on.

Sam frowned as he checked out the caller I.D. "Hey, Ms. Moseley," he said a little uncertainly. "Is everything –?"

Dean heard Missouri's next words even from two feet away.

"I think you boys need to get over here. There's someone here you're gonna want to speak to..."

* * *

"You sure this is the place?" Dean asked uncertainly, stepping over a line of what looked suspiciously like salt ringing the perimeter of Missouri Moseley's orderly front garden. 

"The salt's for protection," Sam informed him knowledgeably, taking great pains not to disturb the condiment. "Keeps out evil spirits."

Dean frowned. "When did you become Mr. Supernatural 2005?" he asked with an arch of an eyebrow.

"I told you," Sam replied with a grin. "I'm a thorough researcher. I could almost be a professional Ghostbuster the crap I've read through in the last couple of days."

Dean glanced back at him as he climbed the porch steps. "I don't doubt is, Miss Summers," he said sarcastically.

"Kinda pictured myself more as the Miss Rosenberg of this little duo of ours, actually," Sam shot back, nudging Dean in the back.

"Well as long as that doesn't make me Oz," Dean replied. "'Cause you may be Andre the freakin' Giant, dude, but I ain't _that_ short."

He turned and raised a hand to knock on the front door, just as it was abruptly tugged open before his knuckles got within a foot of the wood.

"Well it's about time!" Missouri censured them the second the door was open, although the remark didn't carry the psychic's usual stinging tone.

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Are we on a schedule?" he asked uncertainly, peering over the woman's shoulder and into her sombrely-lit hallway. "'Cause I didn't get the memo."

Missouri narrowed her eyes at him before glancing back over her shoulder, as if to confirm there was nothing there. "You might not be," she informed them, "but my visitor sure is. Been flickering in and out of my living room worse than a flashlight with a leaky battery."

Sam and Dean exchanged an uncertain glance.

"Ms. Moseley –" Sam began.

"Missouri, honey," Missouri corrected him, holding the door wider and motioning her visitors inside.

Sam smiled weakly, noticing another line of salt as he stepped into the hallway and almost choking on the overpowering scent of potpourri that assaulted his nostrils. Potpourri and – something else...

"Ozone," Dean identified the smell without hesitation. "You had an electrical fire or something?"

Missouri bit her lip. "Sugar, if only it were that simple," she sighed, beckoning the brothers forward along the hallway, past a brightly-coloured stained glass window and into a large but equally dimly-lit living room.

Heavy curtains were drawn across a large window to Sam's right, blocking out the late afternoon sunlight so that the only illumination came from the flickering of a number of candles strewn at irregular intervals around the room.

Missouri's brow crinkled as she beckoned them further into the room, glancing nervously to her left even as she sensed the boys following behind her. "Not sure if he'll still be here," she muttered absently. "Not even entirely sure how he got here in the first place." She glanced back at them, expression softening. "Dean, honey," she said, placing a gentle hand on the older brother's arm which elicited a look of surprise on his face. "This might be a little bit of a shock for you, okay? Just try not to think too much about it and I'm sure you'll be fine."

Dean frowned. "Cryptic much?" he muttered, following Sam further into the room and turning in the direction of Missouri's skittish glance. A large mirror hung over a wooden fireplace against the far wall, an ordinary-looking sofa and chairs arranged in front. Nothing seemed particularly out of the ordinary about Missouri's darkened living room as far as Dean could see...

That is, until a loud crackle resounded around the room, bouncing off the walls even as the reflection in the mirror suddenly began to gutter wildly, like one of those distorted freaky funhouse mirrors that Dean had always detested.

Sam found himself squeezing his eyes shut as a strong gust of wind seemed to shoot from the vicinity of the fireplace, the mirror suddenly turning as black as the deepest lake at midnight on a moonless night.

Sam blinked as an unearthly quiet descended, and he glanced sideways at Dean just as another crackle burst from the mirror and his brother turned a distinct shade of white.

"D-Dad?" Dean breathed, voice sounding miles distant as his eyes widened to unnaturally wide proportions.

Sam's focus immediately snapped back to the mirror, where a reflection not his own was staring back at him, guttering and shifting like the flames of the candles which had all apparently extinguished themselves at the arrival of Missouri's 'guest'.

Out of the pitch darkness of the mirror, Sam could make out the definite figure of a man standing there looking out at him, large brown eyes haunted and dark, irises tinged with red, skin unnaturally pale, scruffy black beard flecked with grey, face drawn and thin. His lips were cracked and parched, his mouth opening and closing but no speech coming out, almost like a TV with the sound turned down.

"He's who I think he is, right Dean?" Missouri's voice drifted from behind Sam's left arm, and when Dean made no response a tentative hand reached out and touched his shoulder. "Dean?" Missouri squeezed slightly, and Dean blinked once, twice, mouth opening and closing soundlessly as if he were merely a reflection of the man peering out of the mirror.

Sam touch a hand to Dean's arm, which hung limply by his side. "Dean –?"

Dean swallowed, eyes still locked with those of the image in front of him. "How...?" he managed to rasp out, throat suddenly sandpaper rough and desert dry.

Missouri kept her hand on Dean's shoulder. "I don't know," she admitted truthfully. "He showed up here about an hour ago. I honestly don't know how. But I'm guessing he's not here to see me. That _is_ your father, right Dean? Not how he looked in my dreams, but..."

Dean was nodding very slowly. "I don't –"

Missouri squeezed his shoulder again. "Try not to think about it, sugar," she whispered, voice soothing, like warm honey.

"He sent you the dreams, didn't he?" Sam hazarded suddenly, eyes sliding uncertainly to the distorted image of a father he didn't remember. Tortured, anguished eyes, pain the likes of which Sam had never seen, never wanted to see again, staring down at him.

The man in the mirror glanced back into the pitch blackness behind him, the terror, if it was possible, etching itself even deeper into his features as his fists, bloodied and misshapen, were suddenly raised in front of him, as if he was hammering on the other side of the glass partition separating him from his sons. He was screaming something now, but still there was no sound.

"Missouri, why can't we hear him?" Sam asked, taking a tentative step forward, concern for the condition of this pathetic vision in front of him obvious on his pensive face.

"I don't know that either, Sam," the psychic told him. "Like I said, I'm not a medium. I don't even know how it's possible for him to be here. Considering where he must be..."

Dean never tore his eyes away from his father's, but asked in a small voice, "Where is he, Missouri?"

Missouri frowned and pursed her lips uncomfortably. "He made a deal with a demon, Dean," she said sadly. "You know where he is."

Dean swallowed. "So he's in Hell?" he whispered, still not looking away from the image of John Winchester, apparently writhing in agony as he battered his already broken fists against the glass.

Missouri didn't answer, and that caused Dean to break his fixated gaze and turn in her direction.

"Can we help him?" His voice trembled slightly. "He – he's there because of me, right?"

Missouri shook her head vehemently, compassion warring with anger in her dark eyes. "Don't you ever say that, Dean Winchester," she snapped. "Whatever your father did, it's not your fault. Even if he thought he was doing it for you."

"...can't you hear me?!"

The loud voice booming from the direction of the mirror startled Dean into spinning back in that direction – to where Sam was standing with his hand pressed against the glass.

"I can hear you!" Sam breathed in wonder, gazing up as John froze – in relief or astonishment, Sam wasn't sure which.

"Sam, what did you do?" Dean demanded, looking as if he wanted to move towards his brother, but seemingly rooted to the spot.

"Sammy?" John Winchester's tired eyes gazed down at his younger son, a twisted approximation of a smile further cracking his swollen lips. "You can hear me? Oh god, you can hear me!" He leaned his bloody forehead against the glass, momentarily overcome with relief.

Missouri took a step forward, brow furrowed. "Sam, how did you –?"

Sam tore his gaze from his father to glance back at the psychic with a shrug. "I don't know," he admitted. "I just – needed to – to touch the glass."

"Well keep touching it," Missouri urged him. "'Cause boy, right now you're better than a coat hanger stuck in the back of a TV set. Damned if I could get the volume up on that thing..."

Sam choked back an almost hysterical laugh, tears prickling at his eyes as he gazed back up at the stranger he felt he'd somehow known his whole life.

John's focus drifted suddenly over Sam's shoulder. "Dean?" he said, voice cracking as he spoke the name. "Oh god, son. You look – it's as if your mother never left."

Dean shifted minutely, arms folding across his chest as his teeth ground together almost audibly.

When he didn't move, John urged him forward. "Son, I don't have much time..." He glanced back over his shoulder again, as if expecting to see _something_ in the inky blackness behind him.

"How do we know you're real?" Dean blurted, jaw tensing, like a kid who suddenly didn't believe in Santa Claus. "You could be a – a trick. A parlour trick. You've been dead twenty-two years, you can't possibly –"

"Don't try to understand it," John interrupted urgently. "You'll just drive yourself crazy, son. Just know that I found a way. I _had_ to find a way..."

"Are you in Hell?" Dean burst out, taking an abortive step forward. Unable to hold his father's broken gaze, he lowered his eyes before adding, "Because of me?"

"No!" John burst out instantly. "No, Dean. Not because of you." He turned his attention quickly to Sam. "And not because of you either, Sammy, before you get any ideas."

He spoke to Sam as if he knew him, and this unnerved the youngest Winchester more than anything else about this decidedly unnatural conversation.

"This was my choice, my decision," John continued, closing his eyes for a second. "I made a bad call, boys. I thought I was doing the right thing – for both of you. But I – I made it all a whole lot worse..."

"By selling your soul to a demon?" Sam asked uncertainly, fighting back the urge to add, _Selling _my_ soul to a demon...?_ "How can it be any worse?"

"It wasn't like that," John said sharply, voice straining, as if ready to crack at any minute. "It was an exchange –"

"Your life and eternal damnation in exchange for mine?" Dean asked, managing to drag himself another step closer to his brother. "_Sammy's soul _for mine? Like that demon said?"

"It was lying," John insisted. "It didn't go down like that. I'd never –"

"Wait," Sam interjected. "You heard what that demon said to us?"

John blinked furiously, as if tears where threatening, but there was no moisture left in his body to shed them. "They make me watch. Make me watch everything," he explained bitterly. "Part of my punishment; my torture. To see how wrong my choices have been – how I've hurt you, even though I never meant –" He swallowed dryly, collecting himself with an effort. "Which is how I knew I'd screwed up. Again. That's why I knew I had to find a way to contact you – to warn you. Boys, you have to change this. You have to alter the Deal I made with that yellow-eyed son of a bitch –"

"The Demon?" Sam hazarded. "That one that's after us? The one that killed –"

"– Mom," Dean finished for him, still a couple of feet behind his brother. "The Demon that killed both of you."

John nodded. "It wasn't supposed to happen like that," he said. "First time out – first time out, I didn't die with Mary."

"The life you showed me in my dreams," Missouri said, suddenly understanding.

"So you _did_ send the dreams?" Sam clarified. When John nodded, he added, "Just to Missouri? Or – or to me too?"

John's face hardened. "You're having – dreams?" he asked, voice almost breaking completely.

Sam nodded. "You didn't send them?"

John shook his head. "Just to Missouri. In the original version, she and I were friends. She showed me things – the things others choose not to see. What's really out there in the dark."

"Why?" Dean asked. "Why did you show her this other life we're supposed to have lived? What did –?"

"I knew I'd made a mistake," John explained. "I thought – I thought if you grew up without me – without me condemning you to a life of monsters, and demons and things no child should ever have to face – I thought – I thought you'd be safe. I thought it would stay away from you. That you'd be blissfully unaware of it all and it wouldn't touch you, wouldn't come after you. I never – I never thought they'd split you up. Never thought you'd grow up apart, never getting the chance to know one another. When I began to realise there was no way the Demon was ever going to leave you be no matter what Deal I'd made with him, that was when I realised the terrible mistake I'd made. Bad enough that you didn't know what was out there waiting for you – that you weren't prepared to face it, didn't know how to fight it like you did when I raised you; bad enough that I'd deprived you of the training you needed to survive. But what was worse was that I'd unintentionally deprived you of the most important defence either of you had: each other."

Sam exchanged a quick glance with Dean, who was chewing on his lip uncertainly.

"Your growing up apart," John continued. "That's what put you in the greatest danger. That's why I knew I had to put you back together – why I showed Missouri the lives you should have had; why I showed her the fire at your house, Sam: so she'd call the one person who could save you." He looked pointedly at Dean. "You boys were supposed to be together. You were supposed to be watching out for one another. You're stronger as a family."

Sam shook his head. "You keep talking about the 'first time', the 'life we should have had'," he said. "What do you mean by that? The dreams Missouri had – that really happened? Somewhere?"

John nodded, hanging his head slightly. "This wasn't the first Deal I made," he admitted. "First time out, it was how Missouri told you: Your mom was killed by the Demon when he – when he marked you Sam –"

Sam sucked in a breath. "Marked me for what?" he asked, not sure he really wanted to know the answer.

John squeezed his eyes closed. "There's a war coming, son," he said. "Us versus Them." He opened his eyes and looked squarely at Sam. "I think you're supposed to be on Their side, Sammy."

Sam swayed slightly, fingers barely maintaining their contact with the mirror... until Dean suddenly appeared at his side, strong arms refusing to let him fall.

"The dreams –"

"They'll become more eventually," John said, regret tingeing his voice. "Visions. Death visions. Just like before."

"After Mom died in the fire?" Dean prompted.

"Yes," John confirmed. "In that life – I survived. Learned all I could about what took her. About what we were up against. About what I needed to know to keep you boys safe. From people like Missouri and others. There were people out there ready to show me the truth; teach me how to fight it. And then I taught you boys, passed that knowledge on to you; prepared you."

"And then what?" Dean asked. "We fought the things that go bump in the night with you? You taught us to do that? As _kids_?"

"I did it to protect you," John protested. "So that you could protect yourselves – each other –"

"So what went wrong?"

John took a breath, eyes again downcast. "The Demon," he said. "It came for us. Possessed me. Hurt –" he swallowed hard, "– hurt you real bad, Dean. But we had a weapon that could kill it: a special gun. And we thought we got away, but –"

"But what?" Sam asked breathlessly.

"Bastard took us out with a truck," John laughed coldly, looking up once more. "A freakin' semi. Rammed our car right off the road. Dean was – Dean was dying. So – so I summoned it. Summoned the Demon and offered him a Deal – my life for Dean's –"

"You had no right to do that," Dean almost choked on the words. "You had no right to make that decision for me – to do that to me!"

"_For_ you," John corrected. "I did it _for_ you, Dean. And for Sam. We – we never got along too good, him and me. Too much alike. But you – I thought you'd be able to protect him, Dean. From whatever was coming for him. I thought he'd stand a better chance with you than with me. So I made a choice."

"The wrong choice?" Sam asked.

John sighed. "I wasn't wrong to give my life for Dean's. I'd do it again. I _will_ do it again. For either of you. But –" he ran a bloody hand across his bloody forehead, "– before the Demon took me I – I told you something, Dean. Something I shouldn't have."

Dean's breath hitched in his throat. "What, Dad?" he ventured to ask. "What did you tell me?"

John met his gaze evenly. "I told you you might have to kill your brother."

Dean's mouth opened and snapped shut again wordlessly.

Sam was first to find his voice. "You told him _what?_" he burst out, the shock reverberating through his astonished question.

There was only regret and an apology in John's eyes. "If you – if you turned, son," he explained. "Only if you turned."

"You told me I was supposed to kill Sammy if he went Darkside?" Dean could barely believe what his father was telling him.

John nodded, averting his eyes. "I was wrong to tell you that," he admitted, shaking his head. "Knowing how you always did as I told you, Dean; always followed my orders. I should never have said that to you."

Dean tried to ignore the fear suddenly twisting at the pit of his stomach. "Why?" he asked slowly. "Why shouldn't you have told me? What did – what did I do?"

John could scarcely look at him. "That special gun I said we had?" he explained thickly. "The one that could have killed the Demon? A year later, a year after it took me; when it was beginning to gather its army; when it finally came for Sammy. Dean, you – you took that gun and you – you –"

"Dad?" Dean prompted, causing John to look back up at him.

"Son," he said. "You took that gun and you killed your brother with it."

Dean blanched, and it was Sam's turn to keep the older boy on his feet.

"And then you killed yourself."

Dean felt the world lurch sideways, and it was all he could do to remember to breathe.

Sam was clutching his arm with his left hand, the fingers of his right faltering slightly against the mirror.

At length, the younger brother managed to choke out, "He wouldn't do that. Why would he do that?"

John looked down at them sadly. "Because I told him to," he said. "I told him he'd have to kill you if..."

"But not himself!"

"You think he could live with that guilt?" John demanded, eyes suddenly fiery. "Bad enough he figured _my_ death was his fault..."

"And that's why you called 'do over'?" Dean rasped, barely able to hear his own words over the roaring in his ears.

John nodded. "I pleaded with him – begged him – to let me die with Mary instead. I thought he agreed because it meant he'd have twenty-two extra years to torture me," he shuddered involuntarily. "But that wasn't it. He realised what I didn't; he realised how vulnerable you'd both be just living an ordinary life. And I think – I think maybe he realised you'd be separated. When it never even occurred to me."

"That other demon," Sam said, finally marshalling enough courage to ask the question that had been burning a hole in his brain throughout this whole bizarre series of revelations. "He said you sold me out – sold my soul as well as yours to – to save Dean..."

John's eyes flashed with an anger the beaten man before them scarcely looked like he had the strength to possess. "I told you he lied, Sam," he grit out. "I would _never_ do that to you –"

"But that was partly the plan, wasn't it?" Dean put in suddenly. "Keep us in the dark about all this, and then when the Demon finally came for Sam, he wouldn't look at me twice, right? Not my fight?"

"No!" John protested again. "I would never do that!" He lowered his eyes. "I was naive and stupid to trust a Demon – to trust that he would leave you _both_ alone. He lied. Of course he lied. And – and it's true, when I saw you were growing up separately, for a moment I thought – I thought that at least if the Demon _did_ come for Sam, at least you'd be out of harm's way, Dean. Far away from him." He hung his head again, the shame finally putting some much-needed colour in his cheeks.

Sam, on the other hand, paled considerably, while Dean reddened in indignant fury. "How could you even _think_ –" he began.

"I said I was wrong, Dean!" John interrupted him, more desperate apology than angry statement. "You know how ashamed I feel to even acknowledge I _had_ a thought like that? About my own _son_?" He took another breath. "It didn't take me long to figure out that bastard's Divide and Conquer strategy. I'd left Sam wide open to whatever scheme that evil son of a bitch had in mind for him and he was _still_ going to come after you, Dean; after Sam's new family..."

Sam locked eyes with the apparition in front of him, mentally steeling himself to ask the next question. "Jessica?" It was all he needed to say, as his father clearly understood what he was asking.

"First time out," John said, rasping voice tinged with genuine regret, "it killed her. Just like your mother. Burnt on the ceiling."

Sam's jaw tightened, and right then Dean wasn't entirely sure which one of them was holding the other up.

"Why?" Sam asked, voice trembling. "What did she do to deserve that?"

"Got in the way," John replied. "Just like Mary. Just like Dean. And just like your – your mother and father and younger brother in this life."

"The Demon's going to kill them?"

"Already tried a couple of times."

"And Lucy?" Another question Sam didn't really want answering.

John's eyes lowered. "I'm sorry, Sam –"

"She's marked. Like me?"

John nodded slightly.

Sam looked away. "So I've condemned a second family to death?" he asked bitterly.

"Sam, it's _not_ your fault," Dean began.

"You lost your family because of me, Dean!" Sam blurted. "And it's not even your fight! He –" he jerked his head in John's direction, "– was right to try and save you from me!"

"I don't need saving," Dean returned. "Not from you. And this is every bit as much my fight as it is yours, Sam. Because you're right about one thing: that bastard Demon took my family and now it's trying to take you when I just got you back, and I'll be _damned_ if I'm going to let that happen!"

Sam just looked at him, eyes dark and watery. "How can you stop it, Dean?" he asked, voice little-boy soft. "How do we stop a _Demon_ –?"

"That's why I came here," John put in again suddenly. "I know how to fix this."

"No offence, Dad," Dean said, "but you've not exactly done a bang up job of fixing things so far."

"I know that," John admitted. "And I have no right to ask you boys for another chance; any more than I do the Demon. But that's what has to happen. We have to make another Deal –"

"No," Dean said firmly. "No more Deals."

"It's the only way," John countered, every bit as firmly. "Son, don't you think I've thought about this? For the last twenty-two years it's _all_ I've thought about. Believe me, if there was any other way –"

Sam shook his head in defeat. "We don't have anything to bargain with," he pointed out.

"No," John agreed. "_I_ didn't have anything to bargain with. That's why when I asked – begged – he refused."

"What did you ask for?" Dean asked.

"To put things back the way they were," John replied. "The way they should have stayed. If I hadn't been so prideful. Hadn't thought I had the answer, could fix it all..."

"Your life for my life?"

John looked away. "It wasn't enough," he said. "Needed something to sweeten the pot. Said he had all three of us right where he wanted us, so why should he indulge me again?"

"What does he want?" Sam asked.

John looked at him. "That special gun? The one that kills anything – even _supernatural_ anything..."

"And you don't have it this time around." Dean could see John's problem.

The apparition met his gaze squarely. "No," he admitted. "I don't. But I'm hoping you do, Dean."

Dean squinted at him, not comprehending.

"Do you have it, Dean?" John asked desperately. "Do you have the Colt?"

Sam turned to face his brother. "Why would Dean have it...?" he began to ask, as a slow, uncertain frown began to creep across his brother's features. "Dean?"

"It's a Colt?" Dean asked carefully.

"Special markings on the handle and the barrel," John confirmed. "Made by Samuel Colt himself. If I'm right, there should be five bullets left..."

"Why would Dean have it?" Sam asked again. "_How_ would Dean have it?"

"A hunter named Daniel Elkins," John explained. "First time out, he found it. This time around, I got a message to him –"

"Before...?" Sam asked.

"No," John shook his head. "No time. When the Deal kicked in, I found myself right back in your nursery, plucking you out of the flames and handing you to your brother to take outside. No. I had to use other methods. We had a mutual friend: a medium. I got a message to Elkins through him years ago –"

"Why didn't you use this medium to contact us?" Sam asked.

"What, I'm not good enough for you boys?" Missouri harrumphed.

"He's dead," John explained shortly. "Demon got him when he found out what I'd done, how he'd helped me."

Missouri shifted uneasily. "Well don't that just make me feel a whole lot better?"

"I _begged_ Elkins," John continued. "Pleaded with him; explained the stakes, what could be lost if –"

"Begged him to what?" Dean asked.

"Get the Colt to you somehow," John explained. Then, after a short, ragged breath, "Dean. Do you have it?"

Dean glanced at Sam before nodding slowly. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Yeah, I think I got it."

Sam's eyebrows almost shot off his forehead. "How?"

Dean shrugged. "The car," he said. "When I got the car, there were all these weird marks on the trunk – stars in circles – really freaky stuff."

"Devil's Trap," John commented. "Keeps demons out."

Dean nodded. "I guess," he agreed. "'Cause when I looked in the trunk all that was in there was this gun case – with an antique Colt inside."

Sam almost laughed. "The gun Danny saw in your trunk!"

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Your kid brother was messing with my _car_?" he demanded.

Sam shrugged. "Can't blame the kid," he said. "He thought you were an axe murderer."

Dean shook his head disbelievingly, but was prevented from commenting further by his father's desperate voice.

"There are bullets?" he demanded.

Dean's attention was back on the older Winchester instantly. "Five," he confirmed. "Like you said."

Something that on any other face might have passed for a smile crossed briefly across John's pale and tortured features. "Good boy," he breathed. "Good boy. So you can do it."

The brothers glanced at each other.

"Do what?" Sam ventured.

John looked them both in the eye. "Summon the Demon," he replied shortly. "You boys have to summon the Demon."

* * *

So there you go! Hope you're all still awake. Reviews, as always, are like raindrops on Jensen Ackles' eyelashes... sigh... 


	8. Chapter 7

**A/N:** Congratulations, dear reader, you've reached the end of this decidedly odd tale of AUness... I was going to split this chapter in two, but figured it read better in one big chunk. And it's one very very big chunk. So put your feet up and make yourself comfortable...

Thanks to everyone who's read and everyone who's reviewed throughout. Your encouragement is what convinces me that maybe I don't suck at this quite as much as I think I do... That said, as the alerts are down again, I doubt anyone will actually read this, so I'll probably wind up convincing myself that, yeah, actually I really _do_ suck at this as much as I think I do...

I might not be back here for a while, but feel free to check out the Supernatural Virtual Season over at Unscripted Genius - www dot supernaturalville dot net or at www dot supernatural dot tv. The boys are in for one hell of a second season...

**Disclaimer:** I still don't own the Winchesters. Everything pretty belongs to the CW and Mr Kripke - who also owns some of the dialogue I've appropriated towards the end of this chapter.

**Chapter 7**

"We have to _what_?" Dean burst out, a slack-jawed look of complete astonishment hijacking his face and demanding the apparition of his father quit kidding around.

"You have to do it, Dean," John said, fingers splaying out across the mirror separating him from his boys and Missouri's living room. "If you want to survive. If you want to make it through all this – you have to convince the Demon to put everything back the way it was. It's the only shot you boys have."

"We can't deal with the Demon, J – Dad," Sam stumbled over the word, which somehow tasted like a betrayal of his _other_ father; the one who'd raised him; the one who'd read him bedtime stories... And for a fleeting second he wondered who, if anyone, had read him bedtime stories in this _other_ life he was supposed to have lived. Not this father in front of him, he was sure, as the horror of what the man was suggesting slowly began to seep into his brain.

"Not for your lives," John assured him. "But for mine. It's still _my_ Deal. _My_ life. And the Colt. You have to help me put things back the way they _should_ be..."

"Mom _should_ have been baking cookies while you _should_ have been helping me build a fort around Sammy's crib, Dad," Dean observed. "That's the way things _should_ have been."

John lowered his eyes. "I know that, son," he agreed. "But that's never going to happen. It was never _meant _to happen. Just like this life you're leading now. At least this way you boys will stand a better chance –"

"But why should it be any different from the first time?" Sam demanded. "What makes you think I won't turn Darkside and Dean won't end up killing us both all over again? Then this whole thing will have been for nothing!"

John met his youngest boy's gaze evenly, recognising something of the Sam _he_ had known in the young man standing before him. It gave him hope. For the first time in twenty-two years. "I have a plan," he said serenely. "I know how to fix this."

"You have a plan?" Sam echoed. "Care to let us in on it?"

John sighed deeply, recognising something else familiar in this version of Sam. "Last time," he said, "when things reset; I remembered. I remembered everything."

"And that's going to help us how?" Dean asked, moving a step closer to the mirror. "Dad, how's that going to help us?"

John didn't answer. In fact, he wasn't even looking in his sons' direction any more, haunted eyes nervously scanning whatever nightmare vista existed on his side of the glass.

When he turned back, his eyes were huge, almost all pupil, the expression of sheer terror on his face the most frightening thing Dean thought he'd ever seen in his life.

"They're coming for me," John's voice quaked as his fingers struggled to hold themselves against the mirror. "They're coming –"

"Dad!" Dean took another step forward, his own hand pressing against the cool surface of the mirror. "Dad, don't –"

"I have to –"

"Dad!" Dean pressed himself as close to the glass as he could get, as if by getting closer he'd be able to see further into the blackness on the other side, where his father's form was already beginning to shudder and fade. "Dad, don't go!"

"Dean!" The darkness behind John's shoulder was turning to red, then orange, fiery landscape beginning to envelope him even as the colour began to drain from his image. "Listen to me, son!" he screamed desperately at the glass, fingertips still hanging on, even as something seemed to be trying to drag him backwards. "There's something you need to know – something I should have told you the first time; something that could have stopped all this!"

Dean was so close to the mirror his shallow breath was fogging the glass. "Dad! What – ?"

"You have to –" The next part of John's sentence was drowned out by a crackle of static, the image in the glass flickering between the fiery backdrop threatening to swallow John completely and the reflection of Dean and Sam, both too close to the mirror, both as pale as ash, both shaking. "– If you can't... you have to... you have to... Sam... Understand... Sam, Dean! You can..."

And then the image was gone altogether, the last whisper of John Winchester's fingertips leaving only a lingering impression on the other side of the glass, and Dean suddenly found himself staring into a completely different pair of haunted eyes: his own.

"Dean." Sam was behind him, gentle hands on his shoulders, pulling him away from the mirror, back into Missouri's living room; back into Real Life.

Except now they knew for sure that this wasn't Real Life at all. The life they were supposed to be living had been sold to some Demon in a misguided attempt to save them both from a fate neither really comprehended.

Dean was shaking so hard Sam wasn't sure what to do for him, completely insensible to the trembling of his own body as he tried to guide his older brother away from the mirror.

"I think you boys need a cup of tea," Missouri announced suddenly, taking Dean's elbow and gently nudging him towards the ratty green sofa which sported garishly-coloured crochet squares across the seat back. "Sit." She placed her other hand in the small of Sam's back, pushing him after his brother as she spun around and headed for the other end of the room, pulling back the heavy curtains to reveal a blood red sunset beyond the window.

"I think I need something a little stronger than tea, Missouri," Dean muttered half-heartedly, collapsing onto the sofa as if his legs could no longer bear his weight.

"Well," Missouri said, smile overly-bright as she turned back to face them. "Tea's all I got, so you better get used to it," she said, heading purposefully off towards the kitchen.

Sam was staring at the green and orange swirls on the rug at his feet; staring but not really seeing. "We have to summon a Demon," he said coolly, almost matter-of-fact, as if it was something they did every day.

"You have any idea how to do that?" Dean asked, equally as shell-shocked as his brother.

"Not the first clue," Sam admitted, rubbing absently at the bridge of his nose.

"Strike one for our side," Dean muttered. He glanced sideways at his brother. "Well, Sammy," he said, an air of almost hysterical levity in his voice. "At least life's not been boring since I met you."

A weak smile flitted across Sam's features before the almost permanent frown he'd worn throughout the unearthly encounter with John Winchester reclaimed ownership of his face. "We have to summon a Demon," he repeated, the magnitude of that statement slowly beginning to sink in. His eyes skittered up to meet Dean's. "I don't think I can do this," he said. "I don't think we _should_ be doing this."

"You heard what Dad said," Dean countered. "We're doomed in this life just like we were doomed in that one if we don't..."

"And what if we're doomed in the next one too?" Sam's eyes were wild with uncertainty. "What if we do what – what John asked and we _still_ end up dead? What if this 'plan' of his doesn't work?"

"And what if it does?" Dean asked gently. "What if this _is_ the only way to save us?"

Sam's voice hitched in his throat. "By sacrificing Jessica?"

Dean sighed. He knew there was a lot more to Sam's reluctance than just fear for himself.

"She's dead in that life, Dean," Sam continued. "I lose her."

"I know, Sam," Dean said softly. "And I'm sorry. But that Demon – you don't think it'll come for her again in this life? And your mom and dad? Danny?" He paused for a second, leaning forward, elbows digging into his thighs. "And Lucy?"

Sam looked up. "Lucy," he repeated, dragging a hand through his hair. "If it hadn't been for me, the Demon wouldn't even have noticed her. What the hell do I do about that?"

"You do the only thing you can," Missouri put in suddenly, re-entering the room with a tray of steaming cups full of the oddest-smelling tea Dean had ever encountered.

"And what's that?" Sam asked, as Missouri deposited the tray on the table and handed him and Dean a cup, which Dean sniffed at cautiously, making a face as he took a sip.

"Way I see it," Missouri said, settling herself into the armchair opposite. "You boys are out of options. Your father? God only knows what he's risked to get that message to you. Sure, if you go and set things back on their original path, you're going to lose Jessica –" Sam bit his lip, "– but that could happen anyway. Probably will." Sam flinched at the psychic's bluntness. "And I think, deep down, you know that, Sam. At least this way you'll be giving Lucy and your new family a shot at a normal life."

"So, they'll still exist?" Sam asked uncertainly. "In that other life? There'll still be a Nixon family of Lawrence, Kansas? Only without me in it?"

Missouri nodded a little sadly. "Yes, honey," she said. "Without you, sure; but you boys do this right, and they'll also be without the Demon."

Sam's gaze drifted upwards, as if he was fighting back tears. "But Jess... We're supposed to be getting married in a couple of years," he muttered, voice breaking a little. "We were supposed to be getting a house and a white picket fence and two point four children and a dog!" He slammed his cup down on the table a lot harder than he'd meant, the yellowy liquid slopping over the rim and trickling down the sides. He sighed deeply, hand cupping the back of his neck as he breathed heavily. "Why don't we get to have that?" he demanded of no-one in particular, although he was looking at Missouri. "Why don't _we_ get a shot at 'normal'?"

"Oh, honey," Missouri leaned across the table, hand brushing Sam's knee. "It might not seem fair, but some people are meant for greater things than 'normal'."

"And Jess?" Sam asked, voice softening into a tremble as a tear began to make slow progress down his cheek. "What was Jess meant for?"

Missouri squeezed his hand. "Jess was meant to give you four years of happiness, Sam," she told him with a sad smile. "And if you want her life to have meant anything at all, you'll let me help you summon this Demon and put things back the way they're supposed to be."

"You know how to summon this thing?" Dean asked, dumping his own cup on the table with a disapproving scowl at the foul-tasting beverage.

Missouri nodded. "Another reason your dad came to me instead of some two-bit medium," she said. "It'll take me a while to get the things I need together. Although I'm pretty sure I have everything here. Why don't you boys make yourselves useful: go find that special gun your dad was obsessing about."

* * *

The trunk lid of Dean's Chevy Impala opened with a nerve-jangling creak, and Sam peered inside distractedly as Dean released a catch to open up the false bottom covering the spare tyre. 

Sam was surprised to note that Dean actually _had_ a spare tyre in there, even as his eyes lighted on the antique wooden gun case that had so freaked Danny a few days earlier.

"I can't believe your kid brother was nosing around in here," Dean muttered, before turning truly affronted eyes back onto Sam. "I feel so violated."

"It's a _car_, Dean," Sam pointed out.

"Then I feel violated on her behalf," Dean amended, carefully removing the gun case from the trunk before closing it with another creak. "Here," he said, thrusting the box towards Sam. "Our secret super-weapon."

Sam leaned back and folded his arms. "I don't want it," he said flatly.

Dean frowned. "Why not?"

"I hate guns," Sam informed him. "I don't want anything to do with that thing."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "You – uh – know how to shoot with one though, right?" he asked tentatively.

Sam considered the question. "I've seen all the _Dirty Harry_ movies," he said with a shrug. "That count?"

Dean shook his head. "Good thing I wound up getting fostered by a cop, huh?" he said, stowing the box under his arm and turning back towards Missouri's garden.

Sam followed him slowly. "I'm hoping that means you know which end to put the bullets in...?"

* * *

Missouri's homely kitchen looked like something out of a Satanic home makeover show by the time Sam and Dean had returned to the house – after Dean spent five minutes in the garden showing Sam how to load the Colt without shooting himself in the head. The five bullets were odd-looking things – silver, with strange markings on them – but by the time Dean had done showing Sam what to do with them, the younger brother at least had a rudimentary grasp of what to do with the Colt should John Winchester's plan go any further south than it already had. Dean figured his father couldn't really _get_ much further 'south' than he already was right now, and thinking about that too much made his chest hurt, so he was doing his best to follow Missouri's suggestion and not think about it at all. 

That, however, was proving difficult considering Missouri was currently on her hands and knees drawing odd geometric patterns in chalk on her kitchen floor.

"You really think this is gonna work?" Sam asked uncertainly, tilting his head to get a better angle on what Missouri was doing.

Missouri didn't look up. "Has to," she said shortly. "There's more than just your two lives counting on it."

Sam frowned. "What do you mean?" he asked, straightening. The psychic paused in her drawing, but still didn't look up at him. "Missouri?"

Missouri sighed, straightening up as she finally met Sam's inquisitive gaze. "This war that's coming," she said carefully. "I've seen what's going to happen if you boys don't get back to where you're supposed to be. A lot's riding on you two."

Sam shook his head, angered for some reason he couldn't quite explain. "What's so goddamned special about us, Missouri?" he demanded, spreading his arms wide. He indicated his head in Dean's direction. "He's a fireman. I'm supposed to be a lawyer. What the hell do _we_ know about fighting evil and summoning demons?"

Missouri continued to gaze at him placidly. "Your father's mistake in a nutshell, Sam," she said. "Your part in all of this – Dean's part in all this – is going to be more important than even your father realised, and if the two of you aren't there, aren't ready to fulfil the roles that have been laid out for you, then a lot of people are going to die and the darkness that's coming stands a whole better chance of taking permanent control of this world and everything in it."

Dean almost laughed. "So no pressure then," he commented, looking down at the gun case still clutched in his hands and sobering rapidly. "How do we win without this?" he asked. "If it's the only thing that can kill this Demon...?"

Missouri's focus shifted to the older brother. "Truthfully?" she said. "I don't know. And neither does the Demon, which is why he wants the thing so bad. Your dad's counting on him thinking that gun is more of a threat to him than you two are."

Sam thrust his hands in his pockets. "Right now, I'd say he's right," he muttered.

Dean considered that before flashing that over-confident grin of his at his kid brother. "I dunno," he said, turning up the wattage just for Sam's benefit. "I still got that axe in the trunk."

Sam smiled despite himself, and Missouri returned to drawing her symbols.

"So what do we do when he arrives?" Sam asked at length.

"Offer him the Deal," Missouri replied.

"And if he doesn't go for it?" Dean asked uncertainly.

Missouri looked up at him. "You know how to use that gun, right Dean?" she asked. "At least if you end up killing that evil thing, there'll be one less demon out there. Even if you two don't have the first clue how to fight the rest of 'em."

"But that's not what Dad ordered us to do," Dean protested.

"No," Missouri agreed. "It's not." She smiled, glancing up at the older brother through her eyelashes. "But I just got this kitchen painted, so I don't want you boys' blood spillin' all over it."

Dean returned her smile weakly. "Your concern's heart warming."

Missouri raised an eyebrow. "I'm serious," she said. "You boys better not destroy my house and you better not get yourselves killed doin' it, 'cause if you do, you can bet that shiny car of yours I'll be coming after your skinny ghost asses with a mop and a bucket, and you won't be getting through no Pearly Gates until I'm done with you."

Dean snorted, and Sam managed to assure her, "We'll do our best," in his most serious voice.

"Good," Missouri said, placing a bowl of something that looked like a cross between graveyard dirt and granola in front of her before picking up the kitchen knife she'd left sitting on the tiles by her knee. "Always hate this part," she muttered, suddenly slicing the knife down across her palm and letting the blood drip into the pot as she began to chant something in what sounded suspiciously like Latin.

"Hey, what are you –?" Both boys took a step towards her in alarm, but she waved away their attempted ministrations.

"It's alright," she said, grimacing. "All part of the process."

"Self harm?" Dean queried. "You should really get some help with that –"

Missouri glanced at him disapprovingly. "Has to be blood in the mix," she explained, returning to her chanting as something began to fizz and crackle in the pot in front of her.

Dean took an involuntary step back, shaking his head. "I'm stuck in a freakin' Stephen King movie..."

A loud rap on the kitchen door caused the brothers to start in unison, while Missouri merely glanced calmly up at Sam, who was standing closest.

"What should I do?" he asked uncertainly, glancing from the door back to Missouri.

The psychic didn't even spare him another glance. "What do you usually do when someone knocks at the door, Sam?" she asked.

"Uh –" Sam's brow furrowed. "Answer it?"

"Now I see why you're at Stanford," Missouri commented cheerily, dusting off her hands and making to stand up.

Dean jumped to her aid immediately, offering her his arm while Sam shrugged and turned towards the door.

He could make out a vaguely familiar shape through the frosted top panel of glass, but was still more than a little surprised to open the door and find Jessica standing on Missouri's back porch.

She smiled brightly at him, before her voice tinkled out her usual greeting, "Hey, handsome!"

Sam smiled back automatically, glancing nervously over his shoulder at what, to the untrained eye, might look like some kind of Satanic ritual going on in Missouri's kitchen, before turning back to her with a panicked grin that was sheer Bambi in the headlights.

"Jess!" he burst out, voice sounding way too high. "Er – hey! You – er – how – how did you know where I – I mean –"

"Don't worry, I've not been stalking you or anything!" Jess assured him, laughing breezily. "I just wondered where you'd got to. Your brother's car doesn't exactly blend, and I figured you'd be with him somewhere. Thought I'd just drive around until I found you." She laughed again. "And hey, guess what? I found you!"

She took a step towards the kitchen doorway, and Sam took a hurried step forward himself, leaning on the door jamb and grinning like a maniac as he silently prayed he was blocking her line of sight.

Jess frowned. "You got a girl in there or somethin', Sam?" she asked, only half sounding like she was kidding, standing on tiptoe and trying to squint over his shoulder.

A strangled laugh escaped Sam's lips and he took another awkward step towards her, forcing her to take a step back onto the porch.

"Sam –?"

"Jess, you can't – you'd better –"

"What, you're not going to invite me in?"

"You can come in." Missouri's voice suddenly filtered from the kitchen, just as Sam was trying to manoeuvre Jess back out onto the porch and pull the door closed behind him.

He paused, confused, shrugging as he pushed the door back open and glanced behind him at Missouri, who was standing slightly in front of Dean, a deadly serious expression on her face. "Let her in here, Sam."

Sam glanced at Dean, whose hands appeared to be clasped behind his back, holding something, and his eyes trailed to the empty gun case perched on Missouri's kitchen table.

And right then he saw it in Dean's eyes and knew.

He turned very slowly back to face Jessica, blood suddenly like ice water in his veins, fear so thick he felt as if he'd been buried under twenty feet of concrete.

"It's not polite to leave your guest standing on the doorstep, Sam," Jessica said, as Sam slowly pushed open the door and took a cautious step backwards into the kitchen. "After all, you _did_ invite me," she added, stepping easily over the salt line and into the room, brushing past Sam's chest and looking up at him languidly.

Through amber eyes.

Sam gritted his teeth. Of all the people he could have chosen... Of all the people in Lawrence... "Why _her_ you sadistic sonofa –"

"Now now, Samuel," Jessica – the thing _inside_ Jessica – chided him, tapping one long finger against Sam's lips. "Don't forget there's ladies present."

As if suddenly realising what that meant, Dean caught hold of Missouri's elbow and urged her towards the door leading into the hallway beyond the kitchen. "You should go," he told her earnestly, genuine concern for the psychic's wellbeing reflecting in his eyes.

"I don't think so –" Missouri immediately began to protest, but got no further as Jessica's head suddenly whipped in her direction and she found herself being unceremoniously dragged by invisible hands out of the kitchen and into the hallway, the door slamming shut of its own accord behind her.

"Oh but I insist," Jessica growled, even as Missouri's shrill curses could be heard from beyond the closed door, the door knob rattling furiously, but to no visible effect.

Jessica took another step into the room, Sam following uncertainly, the kitchen door suddenly slamming shut behind him, bolt sliding into place with a hard metallic 'thunk'.

Jessica sighed contentedly. "Alone at last," she muttered, yellow eyes roving the room and its two remaining occupants before turning down towards the markings on the floor. She tilted her head to better admire Missouri's handiwork. "And it's always nice to be invited out," she added casually. "Of course, you didn't really need to go to all this trouble, Sam." She smiled up at him sweetly. "All you had to do was call me. You know I'd have come running to you."

Sam gritted his teeth and glanced across the room at Dean, who still held his right hand behind his back.

Jessica followed Sam's line of sight, grinning a grin that really didn't belong on the face of Sam's college sweetheart. "Whatcha got there, Dean?" she asked, taking a sultry step towards the older brother, even as Dean took an instinctive step back. "Didn't your mommy ever teach you to share your toys?" She laughed a laugh so alien to Jessica that it hurt Sam's ears, and Dean just scowled indignantly at her. "Oh, silly me," she continued, her voice all sing-song and matter-of-fact. "I burnt Mommy to a crisp before she got to teach you much of anything, didn't I? Poor little Dean. All traumatised and broken. Just you wait, honey, you ain't seen nothing yet. By the time I'm finished with you, you'll be rocking yourself to sleep in a padded room and eating your lunch through a straw."

"I'm gonna kill you," Dean spat quietly, all restrained anger, coiled and waiting for an opportunity to strike. He produced the antique Colt from behind his back, pointing it right in Jessica's face: right between those goddamn self-satisfied yellow eyes.

"Kill me, kill Jessie," the Demon taunted, hands moving to the girl's hips. "And I think Sammy might be a teensy bit upset if you splattered his true love's brains all over him, big brother."

Dean's jaw tightened, fingers curling firmly around the Colt as he brought his left hand up to steady his right wrist.

"That's why you brought her here?" Sam put in, realisation dawning. "That's why you chose her? Protection?"

Jessica laughed sardonically. "You think I'm an idiot?" the Demon inside the girl barked. "I knew Daddy would get that pain in the ass gun to one of you somehow. That stupid, meddling medium told me as much –"

"The one you murdered?" Dean accused, grip still rock solid on the weapon he had pointed at the Demon.

Jessica's lips curled into a pout. "He tasted kinda vinegary," the Demon said, leering horribly. "I'm sure you boys will taste a whole lot sweeter... If you're anything like your mom, that is... Smelt like cinnamon, but kinda tasted like apples..."

Sam swore he heard Dean growl over the sound of grinding teeth. "Don't you even –" the older boy began, but was cut off by the Demon waving Jessica's hand dismissively.

"She didn't put up much of a fight, your mom," the Demon continued. "Sure, the usual 'Don't you touch my baby!' crap. But then, that's what they _all_ say. Like I'm going to step back from the cribs of my chosen children just because their mommies dared me not to touch."

It was Sam's turn to grit his teeth. "What do you want from us?" he demanded, trying to ignore how steadily his brother was aiming the Colt at the love of his life.

A lop-sided grin slid across Jessica's red lips. "Oh Sammy, you don't want me to ruin the big season finale for you, do you? You one of those geeks who always heads straight for the spoiler section?"

"I'm not gonna help you," Sam asserted, jutting out his chin. "I'd die first."

"That would be regrettable," the Demon said, beginning to trace the chalk outline on the floor with one pink-sneakered foot. "But don't kid yourself into thinking you're not expendable, Sam." She looked up leisurely, as if she had all the time in the world. "You're just one of many, my love."

Sam squared his shoulders. "Then you won't mind listening to my proposal," he said. "If it's not that big of a deal what happens to me."

"'Not that big of a deal'," the Demon echoed with a sneer. "I think that's what your daddy thought too. Didn't realise what he was signing up for. Of course –" Jessica turned back towards Dean, "– he put up even less of a fight than your mom when it came right down to it. 'I want to make a Deal!'" she mocked. "'You gotta save Dean!'"

A muscle tensed in Dean's cheek, and although he said nothing, his right hand began to tremble ever-so-slightly against the grip of the Colt.

Recognising her advantage, the Demon pressed on. "Big bad John Winchester," she scoffed, taking a step towards Dean. "Reduced to begging me to save his little boy's life."

"Stop talking about him like that," Dean growled, trying to maintain his aim with shaking hands. "You don't know anything about him!"

"Oh I don't?" Jessica took another step towards him. "Who d'you think's been torturing him for the last twenty-two years, Dean? Don't you think I might have had a little time for some old fashioned male bonding with your old man in all those years? You know, man to Demon? Victim to victor? Slave to master?"

"Shut up!" Dean spat, as Jessica took another step closer to the shaking barrel of the Colt.

"When he's sobbing, shaking, screaming in pain,_ begging_ me to stop the agony, just like he begged me to save your worthless life, Dean?" The Demon shifted Jessica's stance slightly, and she seemed suddenly taller. "_That's_ when a man reveals his true self: When his soul is open and vulnerable for all to see. So don't tell me I don't know your daddy, Dean. I've had twenty-two years to get to know everything about him: every sound he makes as the skin is ripped from his flesh; every whimper when the fires of Hell burn the screams right out of his throat; every last thought that runs through his head when he thinks he can't endure another second of that constant agony, only to realise that that pain is his for all eternity." Jessica took another step towards Dean, finally coming to a stop when she was less than half a foot from the trembling barrel of the ancient Colt. "All for you, Dean. All that pain for you." Yellow eyes stared hard into hazel. "So," she added shortly, even as Dean tried to fight the tears trying to escape his eyelashes. "If you've come to beg for your daddy's soul, forget it: he and I are best buds now. On first name terms and everything. No way I'm letting him go anywhere."

"That's not what we're here for," Sam said, voice almost cracking as he struggled to speak, but doubtful that Dean would be able to string a coherent sentence together at this point.

Dean looked over at him gratefully, silently thanking him for making the Demon stop, not sure how much more taunting he could take over the condition of his father's eternally damned soul.

Jessica turned back towards the younger brother, eyebrow arched inquisitively. "So you're not here to kill me," she said. "And you're not here to beg for Daddy's soul; so what _do_ you want from me, Sam?"

Sam took a breath, collecting himself. Now or never. "We want you to put things back the way they were – before John altered his Deal with you."

The Demon seemed genuinely surprised. "Oh you know about that, do you? Johnny's been up to no good again, huh? Contacting the living when he _knows_ he's supposed to leave that sort of thing to professionals like myself. We'll have to have words about that. He's getting a little above his station."

"Jeez, you demons like the sound of your own voice," Dean muttered, finally having recovered the use of his vocal cords after the Demon's graphic description of his father's torment. "Here's the deal, Sparky," he added, trying to recapture a little of the bravado he'd so far conceded to the Demon. "Put things back the way they were and you get Dad. Just the way you did before. After – after –" he stopped short, cheeks colouring as he averted his gaze from the yellow orbs boring into him.

"After you save Dean," Sam finished for him.

The Demon turned back towards Sam, long finger tapping against Jessica's lips. "Johnny wants to alter the Deal _again_?!" it burst out disbelievingly. "What, he thinks maybe third time's the charm or something? Maybe he'll get it right this time, not screw things up like he has with his last two feeble attempts to outwit me?" The Demon scoffed. "And why would I want to do that, Sam? Miss out on twenty-two fun-packed years of torturing your father? I already told _him_ he wasn't getting another do-over..."

"Unless he sweetened the pot, right?" Sam interrupted. "You want the Colt?"

The Demon smiled lop-sidedly. "Ooh, Sammy," it purred. "Are you offering me a present? This is even better than when you proposed!" It wiggled the finger sporting Jessica's engagement ring.

"That wasn't you, that was _her_," Sam ground out.

"I could let you keep her, you know."

Sam stopped dead, unsure what he'd just heard.

"Sam –" Dean started, a warning in his tone.

The Demon inclined Jessica's head to one side. "You'd like that, wouldn't you Sam? Get your girl, your white picket fence, your kids and your dog. How fantastic would that be?" It took a step towards him, back turned away from the still-trembling Colt. "Huh, Sam? How about we forget about all this Deal crap? You don't need that. Life's good for you as it is, right? Nice family. Prospects. Love of your life. A _future_, right Sam? In fact," Jessica took another step towards him, much as she had towards Dean earlier. "Your life was pretty damn perfect, wasn't it? Everything you always dreamed of." It paused, trying to frown sympathetically, but simply oozing insincerity. "Until you found out you were a Winchester."

Dean winced visibly, and the Demon half-turned towards him, inclining Jessica's head towards him dismissively.

"You don't need them, Sam," it said with a grimace. "Your life's gone to hell – almost literally – since _he_ showed up, right?" Jessica jerked her head viciously in Dean's direction, and he just blinked at her, the Colt dropping a good two inches in his hand. "You don't owe him anything; you don't owe John Winchester anything. But I could let you keep all this –" she gestured about herself, arms spread wide, "– if you just let them go. Your family; your future; Jessica."

"Lucy?" Sam asked, and Dean shuddered at the hopeful tone in his brother's voice.

The Demon paused. "Everything's negotiable," it said.

"And in return?" Sam asked. "What do you want from _me_?"

"Well," the Demon considered. "I've already got John Winchester. And that brother of yours – _so_ not much of a threat." Dean shifted from one foot to the other, gritting his teeth. "But maybe if you give me that Colt, we'll call it even. You get to keep Jessica, and Mom and Dad and Danny –"

"And Lucy," Sam insisted. "You'll promise to leave her alone."

"That's a lot to ask for one gun –"

"And Dean."

Dean blinked in surprise. "You wanna do this, Sam," he said. "You leave me out of it."

Sam frowned at him. "But I could _save_ you, Dean!"

"I've had enough of people trying to save me at the expense of their _soul_, Sam," Dean pointed out. "And that's what it wants: your soul. You really think it'd give you all that in exchange for this?" He waved the Colt slightly. "It's _you_ it's after, Sam. It's _you_ it wants. Whatever it is you can do. Whatever it is you're _supposed_ to do."

Jessica's laugh tinkled merrily. "Not as dumb as he looks, your big brother," she said.

Sam gritted his teeth, abruptly covering the distance between himself and Dean in two long strides, bypassing the Demon completely and snatching the Colt right out of Dean's hand before spinning and pressing the barrel hard against the smooth skin of Jessica's forehead.

The Demon barely disguised a flinch at the unexpected action, before grinning coldly. "Like you even know how to use that thing, nice boy like you –"

Sam cocked the gun and pushed it harder against Jessica's forehead before the Demon's words had even finished escaping the girl's lips.

"Or not."

Dean tried to remain casual and aloof, but couldn't suppress the 'that's my boy!' grin breaking out across his face.

"Here's the Deal, you sonofabitch," Sam ground out, completely oblivious to anything but the Demon in front of him. "And you better listen good, 'cause I hate having to repeat myself. Put. Things. Back. The first Deal John Winchester made with you. You save Dean's life, and you get our father. But this time, you also get the Colt and the bullets. That's our final offer."

"And lose my favourite chew toy?" Jessica's voice was sarcastic, but Sam thought he detected a slight falter. "You know, I've been playing with Johnny for a long time now. Kinda relaxing after a hard day's demonising. Like coming home to an old pair of slippers –"

"You think this is funny?" Sam burst out, ramming the Colt so hard against Jessica's forehead that a red mark appeared almost immediately. "Well I'm not laughing, you demonic asshole. I've already lost one life because of you; now I'm about to lose another, and my dad seems destined to lose his soul. Again. So enough of the crap. Final offer: Deal or no deal?"

The Demon blinked yellow eyes. "I could give you Jessica, Sam.."

"And I could give you a magic bullet in the brain," Sam returned.

The Demon scoffed. "You won't hurt her. You won't hurt Jessica."

Sam's face remained stonily unemotional. "I've lost her whatever I do," he pointed out, voice all hard edges. "So the ball's in your court. You think I'm bluffing? Fine. You see this gun?" He shoved the Colt against Jessica's forehead again for emphasis. "There are five bullets left. Five. So I can kill five things with it, and I figure I'd better make them count. So. Unless you deal with me and my brother, this is what we're going to do with those five bullets: Max Miller. Scott Carey. Andrew Gallagher."

The Demon's yellow eyes widened, once more taken by surprise.

"Thought that'd get your attention," Sam spat. "I figure if I'm a potential footsoldier to your cause, then so are they, and they wouldn't want to fight for you any more than I do. I'd be doing them a favour –"

"Sam –" Dean was at his shoulder, a frown etched deep between his brows. _This wasn't the plan..._

"Then I have two bullets left," Sam continued as if Dean hadn't even spoken. "One for me," he said, for a second removing the Colt from Jessica's forehead and pointing it instead at his own temple.

"Sam!" A little more forceful, Dean's hand on his arm.

"And the other's for you, you yellow-eyed bastard." And the Colt was once again pressed to Jessica's forehead. "Don't think I won't do it. And I don't care what order it happens. You. Me. Those other three kids you cursed like me. It doesn't matter."

"You won't kill Jessica. And you won't kill yourself." The Demon didn't sound too sure now, clutching at straws with slippery fingers.

"Because even if I go first," Sam carried right on talking, "my brother will finish the job. One way or another, you'll be dead, and we'll take as many of your 'kids' with us as we can."

And suddenly Sam was grabbing hold of Dean's wrist, tugging his brother towards him, the grip of the Colt pressed hard into the older boy's hand while Sam shoved the barrel against his own forehead.

"Sam!" Dean's eyes widened in alarm, Sam's left hand tight around his right wrist while his finger pushed Dean's against the trigger. "Sam, no –"

"You gotta do this for me, Dean," and right there Sam's demeanour changed, looking right at Dean, the only two people in the world, eyes pleading, shoulders set and jaw tensed. Ready. "I'm not gonna end up like that guy in the warehouse," he said. "I'm not gonna end up some Demon's puppet."

Dean's eyes were equally as pleading. "Sam, I can't," he said, voice small and hand shaking even as Sam pushed against his trigger finger. "I can't."

"Yes you can, Dean," Sam's voice hardened again, eyes widening in entreaty. "You're the only one that can do this. The only one I _trust_ to do this."

"You don't even know me!" Dean protested, eyes too bright and too big. "Sam –"

"I know you saved my life once before," Sam said thickly. "When I was a baby. I know you can do it again now."

Dean shook his head. "Not like this," he said. "This isn't _saving_ you, Sam –"

"Yes it is. It is, Dean." Sam's fingers tightened around Dean's wrist. "That's exactly what it is. You might not be saving my life, but you'll be saving my _soul_. I'm not going to be anyone's pawn – especially not the thing that took our family – both my families."

"No, Sam," Dean shook his head. "Killing you is _not_ the same as saving you. That's exactly the mistake Dad said we made the last time!"

Sam held his stricken gaze. "Well right now, that's the best we got, big brother."

Dean's focus drifted from his brother's imploring eyes to the yellow orbs glowing malevolently over the younger boy's shoulder. The Demon was watching him. Assessing him. Daring him. _Not much of a threat..._

"Sam –"

"You gotta do this for me, Dean," Sam insisted. "You gotta finish this. You gotta do it. You gotta promise me you'll do it."

"Sam –"

"Promise me."

Begging. Pleading.

Asking

A brother asking for one more favour.

Dean gazed into Sam's eyes for a second, then back to the Demon, as a slow grin spread over Jessica's face.

"You won't do it. You won't kill your baby brother. Not after it's taken you all these years to find him."

"Deal or no deal?" Sam demanded again, not even turning in the Demon's direction, eyes never leaving Dean's. "Now or never you sonofabitch."

The Demon smirked at Dean over Sam's shoulder. Shook Jessica's head dismissively. "You won't do it. Don't have the stones –"

Which is when Dean pulled the trigger.

A fraction of a second after moving the barrel of the Colt an inch to the left, no longer aimed squarely between Sam's eyes, but over his shoulder, directly between the yellow eyes blinking in shocked surprise out of Jessica's face.

Eyes full of fury. Of indignance. Of defeat.

"Deal."

It was the last word Sam Nixon or Dean Winchester heard in that life.

* * *

"Dean, you really don't remember anything?" 

Sam stood over Dean's hospital bed, his brother's face a mask of confusion, ugly scar running from his hairline to his eyebrow. He was off the ventilator, breathing normally; internal injuries miraculously healed. Some kind of angel watching over him, the doctor had said.

"No," the older boy replied uncertainly. "Except... This pit in my stomach. Sam, something's wrong..."

The brothers looked at each other, and in that instant knew.

Something _was_ wrong.

_Very_ wrong.

But also, somehow right.

"The Deal..." Sam's voice trailed away into nothing, Dean's expression altering to one of sudden realisation at his brother's words.

"I had a gun to your head."

"You shot at the Demon."

"It put things back," Dean breathed, rubbing at his forehead and wincing at the pain. "Before the bullet could reach it. This is where we're supposed to be."

"Are – are we supposed to remember?" Two sets of memories flooded Sam's brain at that instant – a life in an ordinary Kansas family, growing up dreaming of a boy standing on the lawn in front of a burning building, always wondering who he was – and a life spent hunting, shoulder to shoulder with his brother, but desperate to get away – to find that _other_ life.

_Not normal. Safe._

"Dad said he did. Dad said he remembered –"

"How you feeling, dude?"

John Winchester stood in the doorway, arm restrained by a sling, eyes red and tired-looking.

Dean looked up at him. Knew he was supposed to say something, something – else. But couldn't bring himself to do it. "Dad – Dad I know what you did – I know what's going to happen..."

A sad smile flickered across John's face as he walked slowly into the room, moving like a man twice his age with the weight of the universe on his shoulders. "It's a done deal, son," he said, forced cheerfulness making his voice sound hollow. He glanced up at Sam. "You boys did good," he said, smiling again. "Real good. I'm so proud of you two."

"Dad," Sam said. "The Demon – the Deal. We changed it like you told us to, but that means you're still going to –"

"It's alright, Sammy," there was resignation in John's voice. Resignation and something else. A glint in his eye. "It's alright. I have a plan, remember?"

"Dad – you can't –"

"We don't need to fight this time, son," John's voice sounded worn out. Thin; stretched to its limits. "Just trust me this once, Sammy. I've made some mistakes. But I've always done the best I could."

"Dad –"

John glanced at Dean. Knew he was waiting, knew what was coming.

"Sam, you mind getting me a cup of caffeine?"

And Sam knew what was coming too. Knew exactly. Like deja vu on a grander scale. A certainty. "Yeah, sure," he forced himself to say, knowing, somehow, that these were the last words he'd say to his father, leaving the room with a backwards glance for the man he now knew was about to make the ultimate sacrifice to save his sons. Both of them.

Their eyes met, but there were no further words, and Sam merely nodded once, understanding. He headed out into the hallway, intent on finding the cup of coffee his father had asked for, but pausing mid-stride, leaning back against the wall and listening to the low rumble of his father's last words to his brother.

"I want you to watch out for Sammy, Dean..." and he felt like he was eavesdropping on a conversation he had no right to hear, turning and heading away before the tears blinded him and he lost the ability to move.

* * *

"Don't be scared, Dean." 

Dean looked up into his father's dark eyes, wanting to change things, wanting things to be different. Knowing what his father had sacrificed for him and wishing there was something he could do to make this all end differently.

"It's all my fault, Dad," Dean whispered. "You're doing this because of me –"

"No." John brushed a hand through his son's hair. "I'm not just doing this for you, Dean. I'm doing this for Sammy too."

He took a breath, wiping a tear from his cheek before placing a gentle hand on his son's shoulder and lowering his mouth towards the young man's ear. "Dean," he whispered, low and calm, but somehow urgent at the same time. "There's something I need to tell you, son. Something I should have said before – the reason I think things happened the way they did last time. I made a mistake. I gave you the wrong order, son. And it's only now that I've come to realise it. It's only now I've come to realise that you can fix things, Dean. You can fix this. I told you before that you may have to kill your brother, son. I _ordered_ you to do it, told you that if Sammy turned, you'd have to end him. And you did. You did exactly as I ordered you." He squeezed Dean's shoulder, and his son just looked up at him with terrified eyes. "But I was wrong, Dean," John continued. "I was wrong to order you to do that. You may still have to kill Sammy, son. _But only if you can't save him._ You can _save_ him, Dean. You can save him. That's why I had to save you, son. So that you could save Sammy. Because I think you're the only one who can. I should have told you that before. I should have realised. Your part in all of this, Dean. That's your part in all of this. You can save your brother, Dean. You _have_ to save your brother."

And that was the last order John Winchester ever issued to his son.

* * *

So there you go! Hope you enjoyed and I didn't bore you too much! Again, if anyone actually gets to read this, reviews are always nice and make me happy. 


	9. Tag Scene

**A/N: **So I kind of lied when I said this story was complete... Either that, or I just caved to pressure. So, especially for Carocali who asked for it, here's a little added Tag scene just to explain what happened to the Nixons after the boys managed to get reality back on track. I didn't want to add it as an Epilogue, as I like the way the story finished at the end of Chapter 7, so just consider this one of those 'missing scene' tags that everyone seems to like writing!

**Disclaimer: **I still don't own anything, not even a working alert...

**Tag to Paved With Good Intentions**

"You don't have to do this, you know."

Sam gazed out through the Impala's grimy window, across the brightly sunlit street to where the familiar pale blue house nestled in its perfectly-tended garden, rose bushes blooming along the neat pathways, ivy encircling the big oak tree where a child's rope swing hung from one thick branch.

Lucy's swing.

"I know." Sam acknowledged his brother's comment wistfully, eyes lingering on the bedroom window where his last memory was of a night spent with Jessica; a night that had ended with a fire and Dean pulling him from a burning house. As so many other nights seemed to have ended in Sam's lifetime.

Except this house didn't bear a single scorch mark, a single blackened timber; not one roof tile out of place, not one window broken.

And Sam shuddered when he realised how much this house reminded him of that other house, only a few scant streets away, where the occupants hadn't been as lucky as the Nixon family. Saving them may not have been John Winchester's primary concern when he had dramatically returned from Hell to beg his sons to alter the Deal he had made with the yellow-eyed Demon in a misguided attempt to change the Winchester family's tragic history.

But it was no accident that the Nixon family had walked away unscathed and forever unaware how close they had come to complete oblivion.

Mary Winchester hadn't been so lucky.

Sam tore his gaze from the childhood home he remembered so vividly despite the fact that it now belonged to a childhood that had never happened, to look over at his brother, who was also staring at the pale blue house.

It had been only two months since their father's death, and Sam knew how much Dean was hurting; how many unwelcome memories from two different lifetimes this little trip to Lawrence, Kansas was dredging up for his brother.

"You don't have to do this either," he said quietly.

Dean returned his gaze, that well-worn mask of cocky bravado quickly disguising the pain that Sam had glimpsed so briefly in his brother's eyes. "Hey, they invited me to Sunday lunch once, right?" he said, overly cheerful. "Might as well take them up on their offer."

Sam snorted. Even though he knew it was an act Dean put on just for him, his big brother always had this uncanny ability to make him laugh at the most inappropriate of times. "It's a yard sale, Dean, not a barbecue."

Dean grinned at him. "I know that, Sammy," he said, winking. "But there's no harm in trying..."

Sam returned Dean's smile gratefully, glancing back at the Nixons' front garden, where three or four people were milling around various picnic tables piled high with junk of varying shapes and sizes.

Fran appeared from the door at the side of the house carrying what looked suspiciously like two pitchers of lemonade, and Dean almost shuddered at the suburban ordinariness of it. Even in that _other_ life, he'd not exactly had an ordinary childhood, so all of this was still completely alien to him.

But to Sam... The memories were still raw, still close and vivid. Sam had had a family. A _real_ family. He'd had a mom who helped out with the PTA and drove a minivan; a dad who went to work at nine and came home at five and spent the weekends playing catch or softball with his sons; he had a little brother who didn't know how to load a shotgun blindfolded or the difference between a poltergeist and an angry spirit; and a little sister whose main dilemma in life was deciding who was the hottest actor in the latest TV show she and her friends were addicted to, or which boy she wanted to hang out with at the mall.

"You think they'll remember me?"

Dean sighed. "No, Sam," he said, regret tingeing his voice. "From what Missouri said, _she_ barely remembers anything, and she was right next door. And psychic. They're not going to remember you. And pretty soon, we're not going to remember them, either."

Sam looked at him sadly. "So Missouri's right about that? We'll forget it all in time?"

Dean shrugged. "Something about the Universe reasserting itself. We can't remember two lifetimes, Sam. No-one can. So if you wanna do this, we should do this now, before we forget all about it."

Sam nodded. "Okay then," he said, taking a breath. "I guess it's now or never."

His exit from the Impala was accompanied by the comforting creak of the old Chevy's door, and Dean followed close behind as they sauntered as casually as they were able up the sun-drenched sidewalk towards the waiting yard sale.

"You sure you don't want to do this alone?" Dean asked uncertainly, and Sam knew his brother was just trying to give him space, not trying to abandon him so that he had to do this without backup.

Sam glanced sideways at him. "Lucy liked you. You're always a good ice-breaker when it comes to chicks."

Dean frowned at him. "I'm so glad I have my uses," he groused, pushing open the garden gate and motioning Sam to enter.

Alan and Danny emerged from the garage just as Sam and Dean reached the first table of junk, Danny carrying a box piled high with old t-shirts, while Alan hefted what looked like a rusty old weather vane.

"Everything on this table's a dollar," a young voice said from behind a pile of books which looked in imminent danger of collapse, and Sam found himself looking down at his little sister – no longer his little sister – Lucy smiling up at him brightly as she considered risking one more book on the precarious pile.

"You moving house?" Dean asked, when Sam seemed unable to find his vocal cords.

"No," Lucy said. "My big brother's off to school in a few weeks, so Dad says we have to clear out some of his junk." The teenager squinted up at him, a frown suddenly marring her young face. "Are you a fireman?" she asked suddenly.

Dean blinked at her. "Uh. What?" he mumbled, glancing sideways at Sam, whose mouth had fallen open. "No." He managed to assert. Then, "Why d'you ask?"

Lucy shrugged. "You look familiar," she said. "And we had some firemen come give us a talk in school last week. They were all pretty dreamy. Thought maybe you were one of them."

Dean laughed awkwardly. "No," he said, and Sam thought he detected a note of regret in his voice. "Not a fireman."

Lucy nodded, before turning her attention to Sam. She just stared at him for a second, a perplexed expression on her face, before suddenly turning on her heel and running off up the path towards where here mother was tending the lemonade table.

Dean arched an eyebrow. "Well that was weird," he muttered.

"She recognised us," Sam stated flatly. "Dean, she recognised us."

Fran was suddenly walking down the path towards them, a concerned expression on her face as Lucy paced behind her, almost as if she was hiding.

Dean turned on the megawatt smile obligingly, nudging Sam in the ribs, who attempted to do likewise.

"Hello there," Fran greeted them awkwardly. "You boys here for the yard sale? Not seen you around here before."

"We're just passing through," Dean replied breezily. "Used to live around here. Saw your sign." He jerked his thumb at the brightly coloured poster Lucy had pinned to the oak tree. "Thought we'd check it out."

Fran smiled in obvious relief, glancing down the path at Lucy and shaking her head. "My daughter thought she knew you," she said apologetically, looking from one brother to the other. "I'm sorry if she was rude –" She stopped dead as Sam smiled at her, and her face became unreadable for a second. "Actually," she said, "you do seem kind of familiar..."

"She thought my brother here was with the Fire Department," Sam managed to supply, voice cracking a little as he fought the urge to call the woman in front of him 'Mom'.

"Oh," Fran said. "Lucy has a thing about fire." She gave an embarrassed little laugh. "And firemen!"

"So you've had a fire here before?" Dean asked suddenly, seeing a way in to get Sam some of the answers he felt he needed.

"Oh no," Fran said. "We've never had a fire here. There was one at Lucy's kindergarten when she was little. She's been a little scared of it ever since."

Sam's smile became suddenly genuine. "That's good," he said, voice flooding with relief. "That you've not had a fire here. I'm glad." He shifted from foot to foot awkwardly, deliberately not looking at Dean. "We had a fire in our house when we were kids – a few streets from here. It's not..." He trailed off, and Dean coughed.

"So your son's going to college, huh?" he said, as lightly as he was able, and Fran's face softened.

"Hard to let your babies go," she said. "But yes. Off to study Mechanical Engineering. Got a thing for engines. The total opposite of his big brother."

Sam froze. "Big – big brother?" he tried to steady his voice, but didn't quite manage it. "So... You have two sons?"

Fran laughed, suddenly waving her hand to someone over Sam's shoulder. "Speak of the devil," she muttered.

Sam turned slightly, to where a young man was just entering the garden, a pretty blonde girl in a flowery dress hanging on his arm. He was tall – although not as tall as Sam – maybe Dean's height. Athletic build, like someone who ran a lot. Dark brown hair in thick unruly curls and green eyes that demanded any onlooker's instant attention.

"That's my eldest, Michael," Fran's voice flooded with pride as the young couple walked towards her. "Going to be a big shot lawyer out in California."

Sam smiled weakly. "You have a lovely family," he managed.

Fran glanced at him. "I do," she agreed, then laughed again. "And believe me, I know how lucky I am to have them. We told Michael he was adopted when he was seventeen, and were absolutely terrified he'd run off to find his birth parents and we'd never see him again. But I guess family will always be family." She smiled wistfully, and then suddenly shook her head, eyes coming back from the middle distance to focus sharply on her visitors. "You know, I don't know where my head's at today. My little boy's leaving home, and suddenly I'm boring complete strangers with my family history!"

Sam wanted nothing more than to tell her how wrong she was, but just smiled politely.

"Will you boys excuse me?" Fran brushed a gentle hand against Sam's arm. "Feel free to look around," she added, before turning away and heading down the garden to greet her son and her daughter-in-law with a tinkle of laughter and a hug that almost buried them both.

Sam bit his lip as he watched the way she touched the young man's cheek, the way she pushed his hair out of his eyes and laughed when he tried to swat her hand away playfully.

"_You're our son and always will be."_

"Sam?" Dean's hand was on his shoulder, gently comforting him. Reminding him that he wasn't alone. "You okay?"

Sam paused for a second, eyes swimming despite his best efforts. "Not really," he managed.

"You'll forget them soon."

Dean was trying to make him feel better, but somehow that just made Sam feel worse.

"What if I don't want to forget them?" he muttered, gazing after Danny as he ran up to Michael and clapped him on the shoulder. Michael turned and hugged his kid brother roughly, before sweeping Lucy up into his arms.

"You've grown a foot, squirt," the young man laughed, and Lucy frowned at him.

"It's only been a month since you last saw me!" she protested.

"Hey son," Alan grinned big, and Michael shook his hand. "Looking good. Gonna need to get that hair cut if you hope to set foot in a courtroom though!"

"Let's go."

Dean was tugging at his arm.

"Sam."

Sam managed to tear his gaze away from the picture postcard family in front of him – so near and yet so very far away from him.

They didn't remember him.

And pretty soon he wouldn't remember them.

"Sam."

And then he finally registered Dean's presence, standing there looking up at him, hands on his upper arms, concern filling his wide eyes.

"I'm sorry."

Sam blinked. "Sorry?" he echoed, brow scrunching in non-comprehension. What did Dean have to apologise for? "Sorry for what?"

Dean shrugged. "I'm sorry you couldn't have this. Couldn't keep it." He looked away for a second, down at his boots. "Sorry all you get is me instead. Kind of a poor substitute. I wish – I wish I could make it different. Give you what you wanted. Give you 'normal'..."

Which was when Sam realised he'd been looking at this all wrong. "I don't want 'normal'," he said suddenly, voice so full of conviction that Dean instantly looked back up at him. "Sure, it was nice to experience it. Nice to see what it would have been like if – if things had been different. Nice to see if it fit." He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "The apple pie life was okay for a while," he added. "But it's not for people like us. We're meant for greater things than 'normal', right?"

Dean looked at his brother for a second, trying to figure out whether the younger boy actually meant what he was saying. "I wish they could remember you," he said softly.

Sam's smile was bittersweet. "Better for them if they don't," he said. "We saved them, Dean. We saved Lucy from that yellow-eyed freak; saved her family from whatever else that sonofabitch had planned for them. We did good by them. We saved 'normal' for them. That's what we do, right? Save 'normal' for everyone else while we get to play with saltguns and tasers and drive around in your bitchin' car looking cool, huh?"

The corner of Dean's mouth twitched. "Damn straight," he said. "If you're gonna be a freak, you may as well do it in a cool car."

Sam put a hand on his brother's shoulder, gently steering him back out towards the street and the waiting Chevy, leaving his _other_ family chatting happily on their perfectly-tended lawn in front of their beautiful house.

"Family will always be family, Dean."

* * *

Hope that didn't hurt anyone's teeth too much!! If anyone finds this, I still love reviews. And no, this really _wasn't_ just a desperate attempt to inflate the numbers...! 


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